


Life on the Tobias Redbeard

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Dubious Morality, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, Pegging, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pirates, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 62,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2654861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1689 and Dr. John Watson is determined to get his fiancée back from the clutches of the man her father married her off to behind his back. So much so that he leaves for Iceland and chases after her only to be captured, first by pirates and then by an eccentric privateer who declines to take him to his destination without due payment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_rae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_rae/gifts).



 

John lay cold and shaking, the chain around his ankle had long ago chaffed his skin to the point of agony. His stomach had stopped protesting the lack of sustenance and decided rest would be best to save its energy for when it was needed again.

_I was so close_ , He thought to himself, _I almost made it to her. Mary, my love, please forgive me_.

John closed his eyes. He was fully aware that it was unlikely he’d survive the night, when a sound like thunder jolted him awake again. It was followed by the sound of splintering wood, but it took John a moment to realize that, yes, the boat _was_ tipping to one side. Voices shouted, screams echoed through the foul smelling prison. Some shouted they were saved, others begged for death, but still more lay still and past the point of salvation. Smoke filled the prison. The boat tipped again, this time falling on such an angle that John slid down his hay-strewn cell and slammed fully into the wall on the far side. The world erupted around him in smoke and the scream of wood. John sobbed as he realized the boat was under attack and coming apart at the bulwarks. A wall was literally _moving_ past him as if it had a right to! Then the scream of wood registered in his shocked brain and he clamped his hands over his ears as he realized that the wall moving beside him was in fact another boat. A gigantic boat made of _metal_ that had just sliced through the one he’d been on as a hot knife slid through butter. He was now part of half of a boat that would plummet down into the waves as soon as the attacking boat propping it up slipped away.

That didn’t happen because the other side of the pirate ship had been blown away in the first explosion, though John couldn’t see it from where he was. All that was left was the wall of his cell and the floor beneath him. When the attacking boat slipped away his prison plummeted sideways, and John found himself lying on his wall with the bars opposite it above him. John stared up at the sky. He’d never thought he’d see it again. He wasn’t even sure _why_ he was seeing it. There was supposed to be a _boat_ up there.

Then his ears stopped ringing and he heard them. All around him men were drowning. John’s instincts as a doctor kicked in and he grabbed frantically at a hand through the bars, but the owner was no longer attached to it. He released it and gagged miserably before scrambling to the middle of his drenched cell. His ceiling was partially gone, but all that did was save him from sinking faster. He was still going under with his wreckage, whether it was long after it had sunk and he had drowned on the surface or this instant. John sat there on the wall of his wooden and metal tomb and waited for death with as stoic a face as he could manage.

Another boat slid by, this one also coated in metal armour, and he stared up at it curiously. He’d never seen a craft like that, but then he’d rarely been near the ocean until this mad voyage. As he stared up he saw faces staring down at him. He lifted a hand in one last effort to ask for help and someone jumped over the edge. John pushed himself weakly up on his elbows as water sloshed in due to the sudden addition of weight, drenching his clothes and soaking the feet of the man who now stood barefoot in his tiny, damp cell.

He was dressed in a deep purple justacorps with lavish decoration, the frills of his shirt peaking out at the sleeves. His caravate countered that by being more practical while still appearing posh. He wore tight breeches with no stockings and his feet were bare. Around his waist a tooled leather belt held his sword and a horn. His hair was unfashionably loose and wild, his pale eyes flashing as he stared down at John.

“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day. Since when has Heinason started taking prisoners? And since when does a prison _float_? If I believed in luck or God I’d say you were…”

John fainted.

XXX

John woke to the feel of something cold being dripped into his mouth. __

_Water!_

John opened his mouth fully and suckled on the damp cloth like a baby, whimpering as his tongue seemed to absorb every drop before it could reach his throat. The rag was tugged out of his weak grip with his teeth and rewetted to be pressed back against his chapped lips. John suckled it again, letting the fluids revitalize him until opening his eyes sounded like a viable option.

What greeted his wavering vision was a man with eyes too young for his grey hair and a cheerful smile.

“Welcome to the _Gloria Scott_ ,” The man grinned, “I’m Lestrade, captain for practical purposes, but nobody calls me that. Can you speak?”

John gave it an attempt but it didn’t come off well. A bit of more water and he managed to croak out his name.

“Good lad,” Lestrade grinned, “A doctor, eh? I’ll let the Admiral know. He lost his doctor a month back.”

“Thought you?” John croaked.

“I’m the captain of the _Gloria Scott_. The Admiral of our fleet is Lord Sherlock Holmes of _The_ _Tobias Redbeard_. Admiral is an honorary title, of course. Lord is his official one.”

“Honorary?” John questioned.

“He’s a privateer. We all are.”

“Pirates,” John groaned miserably.

“Nope. There’s a very fine line, I’ll give you that, but we’re under letters of marque. Where were you headed when they snatched you up? Who can we get in contact with for you?”

“Iceland. Mary.”

“Mary who?”

_I don’t know. She’ll be married by now. Forced to take a name besides mine. Pretty Mary with the ice-blue eyes who loved to pick daisies and make chains to wear in our hair…_

John drifted off and when he woke again it was to see that dark mop of hair standing over his bed.

“A doctor,” He stated.

“Yes. Admiral Holmes?”

“Mm. We could use a doctor on _The Toby_.”

“Redbeard?” John asked.

“I like pirates,” He explained with a shrug, apparently understanding John despite his vagueness.

“Toby?”

“A dog I had as a child. No, he wasn’t a good dog,” The man stated without John asking, “He shat on the floor on an hourly basis. Most flatulent creature I’ve ever encountered. I adored him. Our fleet runs on an unusual pay scale. You will work to get food and warmth or you won’t get food or warmth. So far you’re in debt.”

John swallowed a few times and sat up as best he could before dragging words out.

“I can pay you once I get back home if you’ll just…”

“You won’t be getting back home for a year, maybe more. I cut off people in debt once their debt bag becomes full. I’m sure you’d rather not go for eleven or more months without food, blankets, a hammock, and a key to the privy?”

“Key to the… you’re as bad as the pirates! People will die!” John tried to shout, but his voice was cracking and only gibberish came out. The man seemed to understand him anyway and smiled wickedly.

“That’s what people do,” He replied coldly, “If someone is sick or lame for more than three months they’re gone; either to the murky depths or off on the nearest dry rock. As a doctor you can help prevent that. Now tell me everything you know about James Moriarty of _The Professor_.”

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/163464.html)


	2. Chapter 2

“Nothing,” John replied, blinking in confusion, “I’ve never heard of him before.”

“You were on Magnus Heinason’s ship and you expect me to believe you _don’t know about Moriarty?_ ” Holmes scoffed, “Don’t make yourself seem more useless than you already are.”

“I’m a doctor,” John tried, “I’m…”

“Useless considering you’re now taking up our only doctor’s time. I don’t even know if you’re a _good_ doctor.”

“I’ll get better and…”

“Moriarty,” Holmes snapped angrily.

“I was _imprisoned_ ,” John insisted, “I barely got _water_ let alone information.”

Holmes sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically, “Fine. I’m hanging your debt bag tonight. I’ll give you a pass on today since you were unconscious for most of it and unaware of the resources you were using up. Tomorrow morning everything you use will count against you, everything you contribute will count for you. That includes information, by the way.”

“I have none,” John replied miserably, “I need to get to Iceland. I need to get to Mary.”

“Is that her name?” Holmes asked.

John must have looked confused because Holmes launched into an explanation, “You’re wearing a lovelock. It’s considered fashionable, so you might be doing it for that reason, but judging by your speech pattern you’re more of a traditionalist than a man of fashion. Clearly you’re from a long line of doctors, making your skill more questionable as you only went into it because it’s what was supposed to be your career rather than a passion or even a longing to prove yourself. It’s hideous, by the way. I prefer my doctors well trimmed.”

“I…” John started, but was too tired to argue.

“We’re not taking you to Iceland unless our targets take us within at least 2 kilometers of a port. If you stay with us you have a chance of earning a cut at the end of our journey. We’ll negotiate that when you’re feeling a bit better, but for now just know that money will likely catch your lady up faster than the title that obviously didn’t keep her.”

He turned on his bare feet and strode out the door with a swagger that wasn’t lost on the fuming John Watson. He was ready to scream obscenities at the man, but he was too weak and was asleep almost immediately from the sheer exhaustion of having to speak and the emotional drain of finding himself in a slightly nicer prison.

XXX

A few days later John left the sickbay, and headed to the mess next to it. The mess was also where all the non-com’s slept, half of it devoted to hung hammock’s full of sleeping men while the other side held tables for eating and socializing. Sailors, John had discovered, could sleep through anything except the ship’s bell. John found out quickly that each man had their own trunk which they stashed their hammock- and anything else not on their person- in at night and locked. If one fell behind in their debts they could trade their hammock for a few days worth of meals and then curl up with a friend on the same shift or barter to use the hammock of a friend on a different shift, otherwise he was left to sleep on the floor of the mess. The hammock was apparently the first item to trade for necessities, closely followed by shoes, combs, blankets, any money they might have won or brought, and personal items. They _never_ traded weapons. They would die with their weapons still on their person. John felt sick again when all of this was explained to him shortly before being transferred to _The Tobias Redbeard_.

John was still weak and he had literally no possessions to his name. Whatever the crew of the pirate ship he’d been on had taken from him- that wasn’t on the ocean floor- the crew from _these_ ships had confiscated. That brought him to his second observation as he was standing shivering on the deck of _The Redbeard_. There were three ships. Only two had been mentioned to him so far, _The Tobias Redbeard_ and _The Gloria Scott_. Now he saw a third. When he nodded towards it one of the men grinned and replied with a salacious wink.

“ _The Tilly Briggs_. The captain on that one is a _woman_.”

John’s eyebrows rose and the man chuckled and added: “Just don’t let her hear you call her that.”

“Huh?” John asked, “Is she in disguise?”

“Nah, she thinks she’s a man! Literally believes it! She dresses her lower half like a man and the upper like a woman. Some say she’s got a willy, and I think it’s true. You should see the way her cabin boy walks after they’ve been going at it.”

“What?” John asked in confused horror.

“Her second in command. Everyone knows what _he’s_ there for. Nothing on upstairs, that’s for sure. He’s basically a glorified cabin boy. No one takes his orders, and he’s long since stopped giving them out and just walks around being an arse.”

“That’s… lovely,” John replied, shivering miserably, “I’m the new doctor.”

The man chuckled, “You’ll have hard luck with that. We’re all fit as fiddles. I suggest you take up a few chores to keep yerself fed.”

“Yeah… okay. Which way to the mess?”

The man motioned to John to follow, giving his name as Dimmock, and John shakily staggered down the narrow steps and into the mess. It was set up identically to _The_ _Gloria Scott_ , with the galley all the way in the back behind an open sectioned off portion with a lifting counter top rather than a door. He shakily made his way over and caught the cook’s attention.

“Lo mate,” John started out, “I’m looking to help out in the kitch-er-galley.”

“No.”

“Sorry?” John asked, startled by his abruptness.

“No. I don’t share my duties. Not unless I’m sick, and there are seven people ahead of you hoping for me to fall ill so ‘no’ is your answer.”

“Look, I’m just a bit weak from…”

“And you think this is the easiest job on the ship?” The ships cook scoffed, “Look at this stove. You ever seen anything like it?”

John had to admit he had not. The stove had suspended metal baskets that twisted and shifted to hold the pot over the flames without the contents spilling. The space was tiny and included a trundle bed hidden beneath the outer counter where the cook slept.

“This ship has seven watches- shifts or rotations to you land lubbers.”

“Land lubbers?”

“ _Lovers_ ,” He sounded out, removing his clearly adopted accent, “This ship runs on a two section dogged watch. That means I cook all day and all night. Two big meals and a pot of something always on hand. You log _anything_ you take from this galley with _me_ and I add chips to your debt bag at the end of the day or take out pay chips if you have em. I’m one of only a few people allowed to touch your bag, and don’t you forget it!”

“You’re the _only_ cook?”

“Hell yes, I am, and I’m the only one on this ship without an ounce of debt. If you think I’m changing that you’re out of your damn mind. Here are the rules: You don’t wake me up. If I’m asleep you don’t eat. I’m awake for half an hour before and after each bell except for the dogged watches; I’m awake all through them and an hour before. If you’re _tender_ and need food in between bells you prepare for it and get an extra bit of bread and cheese or fruit before hand. Got it?”

John nodded and the man stomped back to his stove and promptly dropped a few coals into a bucket suspended from the ceiling. He plopped a teakettle down in it and walked away while the thing swung with the ship. John wondered that he wasn’t covered in burns and wandered away.

The rest of John’s day went much the same. He tried to find something he could do to earn blankets for the night- it was dreadfully cold at night lately- and perhaps a hammock, but he was getting nowhere fast. He learned a great deal, as everyone was eager to spell things out for the ‘dead weight’ they’d just inherited. John was quick to tell them that he was a doctor and would be patching them up soon, but they only laughed at him until he stopped mentioning it. Finally Dimmock took pity on him and explained their amusement.

“He just abandoned the ship _?_ ” John asked in horror.

Dimmock shrugged, “He was amassing horrid debt. I guess he just didn’t see the point anymore.”

“This ship fights _pirates_. While on three year voyages. To tropical islands and cold regions. How is no one ever sick or injured?”

“They are,” Dimmock replied with an easy smile, “But most would rather not admit it. They’ll keep slugging along unless they’re unable to. Only those near death go to the doctor. Honestly, we rarely get hurt because the boat does most of the fighting for us.”

The bells sounded for the first dogged watch, which was mealtime for the White Crew and the short- or dogged- watch for the Blue Crew. John’s stomach growled. He could smell the large meal of the day cooking in the galley and it was torture. He knew he could go down there and get food and simply take a debt hit, but it was starting to scare him. All of their debt bags were tacked downstairs on the galley wall and he’d seen his today. He had several red chips in there and he’d only been on the books for three days! It was half full! The cost to survive on this ship was more than most people in labor jobs made per day. He’d hoped to start earning back, possibly enough to request a hammock and blanket knowing he’d take a hit for those. It wasn’t looking possible.

“Can I bunk with you?” John asked Dimmock in desperation.

“Sorry mate,” Dimmock shrugged, “I’ve got someone.”

“Anyone you know who will?”

“You pick a watch yet?”

“No, but… you’re which?”

“White.”

“I’ll take yours than.”

“No one I know,” Dimmock shrugged, “Some won’t share and others _are_ sharing or are on the floor already. You can always kip on the floor. Mess is never cold.”

“It’s not that,” John worried, “It’s that I’ve been half starved and… look, I don’t know I’d last the night.”

“That’s tough, mate. Real tough,” He said, but his tone was so neutral that John wondered at it. Had they become so inured to death?

Dimmock answered that question by giving him a casual wave and heading off to dinner, leaving John to stare at an empty future he wanted no part in.

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watch_system>

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ship%27s_bell>

XXX

Sherlock wasn’t expecting Dr. Watson to come slamming into his cabin unannounced and unsolicited, yet there he was standing on his rug and fuming at him. He was pale still, which was to be expected after the state they’d found him in, but a bit of colour had ridden to the occasion. Sherlock decided to humour the man and put his map aside to give him his full attention.

“Your crew,” John panted, “Is demoralized, degraded, and utterly inhumane!”

“We’re privateers, not charity workers. I suggest you find something to sell if you want more than the air you’re currently breathing.”

“I’d be unsurprised if you tried to sell that too!”

Sherlock smirked, “These three vessels are the pride of Her Majesty The Queen. We take in more bounty than any other ship. You saw the metal hull? I designed it myself. They can’t be sunk. They’re floating _swords_. I cut through enemy vessels and then net the remains as if they were dead whales, picking up what I want and discarding the rest. Each crewmember that survives takes a cut after the Queen gets her share. An _even_ cut.”

John’s jaw dropped, “You don’t take more?”

“I don’t need more. I don’t need _any_. I get far more from these raids than _money_. You see, Watson,” Sherlock stood and moved into the doctor’s space, “This crew risks it’s life day in and day out, but they feel _immortal_ because of this ship; yet the reality is that this ship will outlive us _all_. If I don’t give them a battle to keep them sharp- a daily battle- than they will sink before this vessel reaches it’s next target and I will be crewless. As brilliant as I am, and as wondrous as these ships are, I can hardly sail all three back to England alone.”

Having made his point Sherlock turned back to his maps, mentally dismissing the shocked doctor behind him.

“I’m your doctor,” Watson whispered, his voice trembling.

Sherlock ignored him.

“I’m to take care of you. Of your whole crew.”

Sherlock continued to ignore him and mentally marked him as ‘oblivious to being dismissed and/or ignored’.

“I’ll die if I don’t have someplace warm and dry to sleep tonight,” Watson informed him, his voice strong despite the fear behind it.

“What a pity you’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean.”

“You’ll lose your doctor.”

“There’s one on the Gloria Scott.”

“If it sinks-”

“Unsinkable.”

“Nothing is unsinkable.”

“Then for the sake of this crew I suggest you find something to trade.”

“I have _nothing_ except the clothes on my back and I’ve already been told that they’re unwanted.”

“You have your body…”

“I’m too weak to work.”

“Your mind.”

“No patients.”

“Your mouth.”

“I can’t sing and I don’t know any stories.”

“I didn’t mean to sing for your supper.”

“Huh?” Watson asked, not impressing him at all with his witty banter.

“This is a crew of entirely men,” Sherlock snorted, “You think we go without the touch of another for three years straight? Why do you think so many don’t have hammocks? They didn’t lose them, they traded them for necessities when having two hammocks between two men became unnecessary.”

Watson gaped at him and then snapped his jaw shut and he visibly steadied himself, “Who?”

“Pardon?”

“Who would be interested?”

“No one. We’ve been out for a year. Those interested in men have paired off. Those uninterested won’t touch you. Those uninterested but needy enough to let you touch them will make you pay for it later once they decide that you’re to blame for their indiscretions.”

“Then what am I to do?!” Watson ranted.

Sherlock sighed, “Since you are a doctor, and since you did not choose this, I will give you _one last concession_.”

“Thank you,” John breathed, “If I could just have a free hammock and a few blankets…”

“No,” Sherlock replied, disgusted at him for asking for so much, “You may sleep on my floor. This cabin is warm and dry. That rug there will serve you for the night. I suggest you make due. Take this slip to the galley and get yourself a free meal. Make sure you don’t upset the cook.”

“Thank you,” Watson replied miserably, though he didn’t sound it.

 

 

_The only pics I could find for the stoves on the ship were modern ones_ _L I went with the best approximations. What they have was a combo of the two below._

Sea Swing Stove <http://i32.tinypic.com/2dtdah5.jpg>

Gimballed Stove <http://img689.imageshack.us/img689/2199/p3100218.jpg>[  
  
](http://img689.imageshack.us/img689/2199/p3100218.jpg)[CHAPTER 3](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/163776.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Life on the Tobias Redbeard Ch 3

 

John took the green chip the Admiral handed him, relieved it _wasn’t_ another red chip, and headed downstairs as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to miss the cook and end up going hungry. Surprisingly enough the cook gave him a proud look and nodded firmly. Then he gave him extra chunks of bread and dry cheese that John eagerly pocketed with a warm smile and a soft thank you.

He devoured what his tortured stomach could handle and then headed aft to the captain’s cabin. This time he knocked and the berk opened the door with a big fake grin and gestured for him to enter as if he were a butler.

“Your big fluffy bed, sir!” Holmes declared.

“Thank You _garcon_ ,” John replied, adopting a haughty air and striding in before stretching himself out on the rug in front of Holmes’ bed, “The goose you plucked for my bed must have been made of feathers himself!”

Holmes chuckled and shook his head in amusement, “At least you aren’t _entirely_ dull.”

Then he stepped over him and collapsed into the bed… to read. John closed his eyes and fell into an exhausted sleep despite the flickering lantern, but he woke up before the next bell shaking with cold. The cabin was dark, his eyes barely able to discern anything, but warmth was evident when he pulled himself upright by the edge of the Admiral’s bed and felt the ambient warmth from the occupant.

_That bastard_ , John thought, _He’s got a bed while the rest of us share hammocks. Literally share them. How do those blokes down there manage to fit two people in a hammock? Sure they’re bigger than the hammocks I’ve seen on the other ships, but really?! Two people in a hammock?!_

John hesitated only for a moment. He knew the cold wasn’t as profound as it felt, but his body needed to _heal_. He crawled into the bed and slipped beneath the covers. It was necessary to press rather close to the man due to the limited space, but rather than wake him he only snorted, threw an arm over John, and settled into a deeper sleep. John pressed against his warmth and drifted off once again.

The next time John woke it was to the rather surprising sensation of shifting in a different momentum to the sway of the ship. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and once he did he realized that the Admiral was sleepily rutting his morning wood against John’s thigh. John scrambled out of the bed in shock and the man jolted awake, giving him an annoyed look.

“Wha?” He asked blearily.

“Nothing,” John spat out.

Holmes’ eyebrows drew down and he gave John a suspicious look, “You answered that too fast. So it was something. Were you in my bed?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar. You _were_ in my bed and I’m hard as a rock, so clearly you were awoken by me trying to ease the agony of this erection I’m sporting. Either come back into the bed and help me relieve myself or get out and don’t come back tonight.”

John was halfway to the door when the second half of the sentence sunk in. _Don’t come back tonight_ …

He fought himself for a moment and then turned and headed back for the bed. He climbed back in slowly, noting that Holmes was already working his hand over his shaft, his eyes closed and his face settled into lines of concentration. John slid beneath the covers, sighing at the return of warmth, and moved to take the man in hand. Holmes surrendered his cock to him with a relieved sigh and relaxed into the mattress more fully. John tried to pretend it was his own member he was stroking and found that worked rather well at first, until the man began to moan softly and thrust up into John’s hand. Then the sight of the cold man coming undone in front of him distracted him. His tan and freckled skin flushed as he arched his back, his sleep mussed hair began to cling to his forehead as he broke out in a light sweat. John was surprised to see he’d slept nearly naked- John had been to tired to notice anything besides warmth- and once the covers slipped down John was treated to pebbled nipples and a chest with a small patch of rough curls.

John was surprised to find himself hardening in his trousers, his breath quickening at the thought of getting off for the first time in ages. It was certainly a new experience to have another warm body nearby. He’d never touched Mary, not sweet innocent Mary who deserved a ring and a huge wedding, never to be disgraced by a man’s ardour. Since he’d loved her for as long as he could remember he’d never sought out the touch of another woman either. Now he saw an option that had never occurred to him before and his body was aching for release.

Holmes pushed the blanket down suddenly and John had a shock for a moment as he caught the sight of another man’s hard cock for the first time in his life. The purple head stared up at him for a moment before spurting across Holmes’ chest and stomach. John gaped at the sight and then shifted away as shame flushed through him. He _knew_ others did this sort of thing, especially sailors who saw no women for months or even years at a time, but the idea of John- civilized, practical John- doing something so _base_ as to fornicate with another man for the sake of _getting off_ … __

A chuckle brought his eyes from the expanse of Holmes’ splattered torso to his face and John wished he could sink down into the floor and vanish when he realized he’d been staring.

“You’re _ashamed_ ,” Holmes chuckled, “How quant!”

“Anyone would be ashamed. I basically just _prostituted_ myself.”

“You’re rather good at that,” Holmes replied with a grin, “You must stroke yourself off frequently.”

John stiffened in horror as Holmes gave him a predatory look and reached towards John’s still throbbing member. He scrambled backwards so quickly that he toppled out of the bed and landed hard on the rug. A dip of the ship added to his momentum and he rolled across the floor and slammed into the man’s desk chair, winding himself terribly. Holmes’ laughter followed him as he stumbled out of the cabin, gasping in humiliation and pain.

John headed for the edge of the boat to relieve himself since he still hadn’t earned a key to the privy and that was one thing that couldn’t be added to your debt bag- it wasn’t a necessity so you couldn’t have it if you were in the red. Once he’d finished pissing off the side of the boat- made more difficult by his slowly wilting erection- he cast about for something to make himself useful and spied a mop and bucket. As always there was a bucket of chips beside it. If he scrubbed the deck he could turn that chip in and decrease his debt, and that wasn’t anyone’s specific ‘job’ so no one could tell him not to do it. He headed over and grabbed the mop, determined to push himself as hard as he had to in order to eliminate as much debt as possible. He wouldn’t dishonor himself again!

John scrubbed the deck of the ship, taking several hours as opposed to the usual half hour that a seasoned fellow would take. He leaned against his mop, panting and exhausted, and happily opened the lid and removed a chip. Each chip was a different colour for each station and had a carved symbol for the station it worked. Wash stations were blue and this one had a bucket carved in it. John thought he’d remember that shade of blue fondly forever. Step one to achieving his freedom on this devil-led vessel.

Then someone snatched it from his hand. John gaped at the man standing in front of him scowling. The chips were an honour system, and several crewmembers had warned him that the Admiral _always_ knew when someone tried to cheat with it. The punishment was horrific apparently. So why was this man taking his chip? John squared himself to tell the man off, when he started in on _John_ instead.

“You call that a mop job? Trust me son. The Admr’l won’t be taking a chip out of your bag for this, he’ll be _adding_ to it for you wasting soap! Worthless piece of shit.”

The man opened the latch and tossed the token back inside while John fumed and despaired. Then he marched off and rang the bell. The next watch was on and in the rush of turnover John was unobserved. He hesitated a moment and then snatched the chip back up again. He headed down to the mess with his chip tight in his hand and dropped it in the sack hanging beneath the slate with his name marked on it. Then he did a double take. His debt was gone. All of the red chips were missing from his bag and the notes that were beneath his name on the slate- reasons and exceptions- had been erased. It couldn’t be a mistake. No one would dare mess with anyone’s chart; a notice was painted above detailing the floggings they’d receive. A mistake? The slate was clearly marked with a ‘+’ but there was no reason listed unless…

_Is a handjob that valuable to him? He erased that much debt for me tossing him off?!_

John stared at his sack with the single blue chip in it, aware of how many red debt chips it had held earlier. The thought that if he worked hard for the rest of the day hit him and he wondered if he could get his own blanket by the end of the day, and perhaps even a hammock- each cost five pay chips, and the blankets were quality. Except that he was so tired, his limbs weighing twice their normal amount. He wanted to curl up and sleep again. He wanted to _eat_. He recalled the food he’d stashed and sat down at a table to munch on it while considering his plight. If he could get more pay chips he’d be able to avoid the Admiral again, but he was still recovering and the mopping he’d done had worn him out. It was warmer during the day so he considered just sleeping in the corner until nightfall and then trying to find work then. That sounded the most intelligent, so he headed to the corner where a faded set of rugs had been thrown down as a sign of mercy for those doomed to sleep on the floor. John pressed himself into a corner and dropped off almost instantly.

A harsh hand awaked John by shaking his arm violently. He jolted awake and stared blearily up at Holmes and the crewmember who had taken his chip from him.

“I trust you were warned about our system?” Holmes asked, “And the punishments that arise from manipulating it?”

“I mopped for three hours,” John stammered, “I _did_ my share.”

“You moved filth around on the deck and wasted soap,” Holmes stated firmly, “All watch hands topside for a punishment.”

“No! Wait!” John was snatched up in Frank’s firm grip and tugged upright, “Hang on! I’m still recovering! I can’t just… Wait!”

Another sailor clapped their hands down on him and he was prevented from even stalling his ascent to the decks. The whipping post was just the rail between the poop and the quarterdeck, but that wasn’t where they led him. Instead John was abandoned in the crowd milling about on the quarterdeck while Holmes ascended to the poop and stood beside a man who was rail thin and shaking and a woman whose skin was the darkest John had ever seen. _Negro_ , his mind supplied, and also the female captain who pretended to be a man judging by the bulge in the front of her britches that was clearly created with a padded codpiece. What no one had mentioned was the pattern of tattoos on her skin, darker even than her flesh and menacing even in the light of day. Perhaps that was accentuated by the looks on people’s faces that made this seem more like a funeral than a punishment. Perhaps it was.

“Mr. Wilkes here has made a grievous mistake. He stole twenty-one pay chips and turned them in. He wasn’t even _clever_ about it,” Holmes snarled as if that were the worse sin, “He gets five lashes per stolen chip. For those of you who are incapable of basic math- which is most of you- that amounts to one hundred and five lashes.”

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he sagged to the deck. Holmes ignored him and set about examining his bullwhip for flaws. John was striding up to the deck before his legs registered what he was doing. He knelt beside the man and checked his vitals before glancing up at Holmes who was looking at him as if he had grown a second head.

“What are you _doing_?” Holmes asked.

“Admiral,” John stated, his voice strong enough to carry to the sympathetic masses, “This man is dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition. A punishment that breaks the skin would kill him.”

Rather than answer, and still giving him a look of befuddlement, Holmes pointed towards one of the lower decks. John stood and saw a hammock stretched out on the decking with a pair of shoes, some weapons, and a silver necklace.

“Sleep isn’t going to help him,” John stated firmly.

The masses responded with derogatory sounds and Holmes rolled his eyes, “Sailors are buried at sea _in their hammocks_ with their worldly possessions. Though he lost the right to his hammock months ago, I allow them back for burial.”

John gaped in horror, “You’re murdering him!”

“Who is dis moron?” The Negro captain snapped. Her voice was heavily accented and quite beautiful.

“I’m _punishing_ him,” Holmes replied, ignoring her.

“At least let me nurse him back to health first! If he can survive the punishment…”

“Survive one hundred and five lashings?” Holmes scoffed, “Even if he _wasn’t_ already three months behind in debt…”

_“Who is dis MORON?!”_ She demanded again.

“Doctor John Watson,” John snapped in mock politeness, “And you are?”

“ _Cap’n_ Sal Donovan. _Pleasure_. Now get do’n, shut up, and let us get dis over wit.”

“Sod your debt system!” John shouted angrily, “You’re talking about a human being, not a damn debt chip!”

“If this were England, would he fare any better?”

John blinked in confusion.

“If this were _England_ ,” Holmes repeated, “And he on the streets begging for food. Would he fare any better?”

“He wouldn’t be _whipped_ ,” John argued.

“Yes he would. He’d try to steal from a fruit stand or some such and be beaten to death in an alley. At least here he gets a proper funeral.”

“Except you’re assuming he’d be homeless if he were working in England instead of here!” John argued relentlessly, “When he’s got a _job_ at the moment that doesn’t pay him until the end! He’s a rich man starving to death on a ship carrying his fortune!”

“All hail king Midas!” Holmes laughed bitterly, “Except you’re neglecting to acknowledge the fact that our debt chip system was set up to weed out those too weak to voyage in the first place. This man failed to do his job aboard this ship- a job that would have earned him pseudo wages- and fell into debt. He _could have_ gotten off at the last port, but he chose not to. I will not reward laziness and poor judgment with a portion of our haul!”

John opened his mouth to continue the argument, but a glance out at those gathered showed unforgiving and even hostile faces directed at him. Not only were they looking forward to a bigger haul without him taking his cut, but also he was an outsider who had insulted their system and they were _furious_ with him. When he glanced out at them they reacted with outrage, shouting for _John_ to be punished. That gave John an idea.

“I’ll take his lashings,” John shouted over the roar.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ll take his lashings. I’ll be his whipping boy. Start him over on a clean slate and let him try again.”

Holmes’ face screwed up in confusion, “How would whipping _you_ punish _him_?”

“The same way that having all these people watch _his_ punishment keeps them behaving. Also he’ll owe me a debt for sacrificing myself for him.”

Cap’n Donovan gave him an approving look and Holmes considered this for a moment and then nodded acceptance, “Well, it works for religion. Very well. One hundred five lashings for Dr. Watson.”

John was tossed over the railing, the back of his shirt yanked over his head and tucked beneath his chin and his hands lashed to the rails as his face stared down at the crew. Their faces had changed from angry to shocked and confused. They literally had no idea why he would do something like this for a stranger.

“Doctor Watson is a stranger here,” Sherlock stated in a stage voice, “Unfamiliar with our ways and having never volunteered himself for this voyage. He’s a doctor and therefore valuable to us, but he’s offered to take the punishment of this idiot here which could very well result in his death. Therefore I have the difficult decision between lenience and severity. You will decide. The flog or the whip? We’ll vote for whip first since it’s my favourite. Who wants him whipped?”

Hands flew up and people jeered and shouted eagerly. John stared down at them wondering _why_ on earth this ship was full of people who wanted him to be beaten bloody. He was shaking. He wasn’t afraid of pain, but he was afraid that this would be his undoing. Months of starvation and borderline dehydration, forced labour on the ship he’d been a prisoner on, and now _this_. He wasn’t sure his body could handle bloodloss and possible infection on top of all he’d already been through, even having had sleep and food recently.

Holmes knelt down and grasped his hair, pulling his head up until it hurt and John was forced to shut his eyes against the noonday sun. He leaned forward and whispered harshly into John’s ear.

“Did you see how many hands voted for a whip? You’ve been on this ship less than twenty-four hours and you already have enemies. What did you do to piss so many people off? Hmm?”

“I don’t know,” John panted, his neck and scalp throbbing, “I’ve tried to pull my weight! I was just looking for a place to sleep last night, but they kept laughing at me.”

“Well they should. Do you think the cook is the only one with a bed in his work space?”

He released John’s head and it fell forward, his eyes flying open as rage overwhelmed him and he started struggling in his bonds, his legs kicking out and scrabbling against the deck.

“He’s pleading for leniency,” Holmes announced to the group, “You’ve voted for whipping. I’m going to lower his punishment to flogging and take him on as a cabin boy since doctors on this ship have a tendency to starve and I’ve never had the pleasure of having my own personal boy.”

John blinked a few times and took in the faces of the people around him. Where they had been calling for his whipping they were now looking at him with horror and pity. Apparently being Sherlock Holmes’ cabin boy was worse than being beaten with a bullwhip.

“Lower his trousers,” Holmes ordered his first mate.

First Mate Victor Trevor knelt down to lower his trousers and bare his bottom to the air. John flushed in horror and then shouted in surprise as flogger came down on his backside, the sting registering first and then the bruising ache afterwards. John told himself to breathe through the abuse, reminding himself over and over again that this was better than a whip. Then he felt it; a tightening in his loins. Once he noticed it his body took that as the go ahead and started pumping blood south while John gasped and swore in horror. His cock was hard and leaking by the time the tenth lash fell and John shouted for the second time as it began to throb and twitch with each harsh strike. From the angle he was at he doubted anyone could see his erection, but John was oddly certain that Holmes was aware of it. The only consolation he had was that the need in his member was distracting him from the pain growing in his backside. He vaguely noted that Holmes was up to twenty and starting to sound breathless.

John screwed his eyes shut as they approached fifty, his backside felt as if it were on fire and his erection was starting to dwindle. The next strike didn’t fall and he took a few minutes to shift miserably as he hung over the rail. Holmes dropped down on one knee and made a show of examining his consciousness. While the people below probably thought he was checking him for broken flesh the people _behind_ him would be able to see exactly what he was doing. Especially when he snuck a hand down between his thighs and stroked John’s bollocks and cock. He let out a startled shout and rocked into his hand as he pumped him back to full hardness and then stroked his backside a moment. The caress to his inflamed skin was like a balm.

“He says he can go on,” Holmes stated as he stood.

There were a few shouts of encouragement from below him so John pried his eyes open to see people looking at him with newfound respect. _If only they knew!_

The next strike drew a strangled cry from him and he gave up restraining himself and began to roll his hips in a desperate bid to find friction. He managed to brush his cock up against his own awkwardly placed legs every once in a while to keep himself from going completely insane as the blows continued to rain down on his buttocks, thighs, and back. The flogger was the sort meant to be used for humiliation more than damage, but the leather was still likely to break the skin what with he amount of strikes. He could feel something trickling down the back of his thigh, but he wasn’t sure if it was blood or sweat. He’d never been so grateful for an awkwardly timed erection as he was at that moment.

Then there was silence. The sound of the flogger striking his backside ended, the people below seemed to hold their breath. Holmes knelt down to give his cock a squeeze before tying him into his trousers once more. John couldn’t decide if he was grateful or horrified by the squeeze. Then he was helped up and everyone burst into loud cheers while John hung off of Holmes with his head spinning. His cock was fit to burst and his limbs felt useless. Sherlock waved his hand for silence and then shouted for Stevens, the fellow who John had been punished for, to be taken to the doctor on _The_ _Gloria Scott_ while John recovered. John was passed down the ladder and Holmes ordered Dimmock to take him to sickbay.

“Are you going to kill him?” Dimmock worried.

“Do I randomly kill people often?” Holmes asked.

“No, sir,” The man replied hesitantly.

“But I do find reasons to, don’t I?” Holmes replied, his tone amused, “You’ve clearly heard the rumours. They’re all true. My brother keeps me out here to limit the amount of people who have contact with me… and can therefore be subjected to my impulses. Relax. He’ll survive me… this time.”

They stepped into the sickbay cabin and Holmes slammed the door shut behind them after dismissing Dimmock who only put up a cursory protest. John lay face down on the mattress, his breath coming in pants as desire and pain warred with each other in turn. Holmes kneeled beside him and John turned his head to stare into his blown pupils.

“You should see your arse,” Holmes growled, “The red stripes. Some of them are _bleeding_.”

 

“Oh gods,” John panted, and all but sobbed with the pulsing desire in his body.

“I was wrong about you,” Holmes purred, “You aren’t a doctor because your father was, you’re a doctor because pain _fascinates_ you. Have you ever been beaten before?”

Holmes rolled him gently on to his side and pulled the laces on his trousers, freeing his aching cock. He let John collapse back on his front and then spread his legs and kneeled between them.

“Please,” John panted, worried about what he might do back there.

“Answer me,” Holmes insisted, and then poured rum over John’s torn flesh.

John howled, arching into the bed and then finding he couldn’t stop. He was gripping the sides of the cot and thrusting down into Holmes’ hand as it cupped his member, his bollocks rubbing against his forearm, and he had no idea how it had gotten there. The lines between pleasure and pain were far from blurred. The sweet smell of the rum tantalized his nose and the feel of another person’s hand on his cock was driving him wild.

“N-no. Not since… not since I was a child. I broke something… family heirloom. My father beat me with his belt. This did _not_ happen!”

“Comforting,” Sherlock smirked, “Seeing as how I’m not interested in being your _father_.”

“Wh-what _do_ you want?” John asked, his voice trembling as Holmes leaned down and began licking the rum from John’s body, “Oh gods!”

“You. On your knees. Begging me to beat you again,” Holmes purred.

John opened his mouth to reply something utterly ridiculous, but all that came out was a low groan that escalated to a scream as Holmes gripped his cock and pumped it until he came harder than he ever had in his life. John blacked out and when he came to he was sobbing, Holmes still lapping rum from his back and arse, as he fell apart completely.

Everything he’d been through. Everything he’d lost. Mary of the pale blonde hair who smelled like lemons from her use to keep her hair almost white. Lemons that smelled like happiness and summer and childhood.

“Good, good,” Holmes murmured, “Let it out. Tell me more. How did you end up separated?”

_I’m talking out loud?_

Mary’s father came between them. He had supported their engagement, rejoiced that his daughter was so in love with a nice doctor, but then suddenly she wasn’t there. He’d gone to her house with flowers and her favourite pie baked by his mother and she’d been gone. To Iceland. Her father had found a richer prospective husband for her and he had sent her there. Her mother and brother had gone with her. He would never see her again. He couldn’t accept it. He chased after her, taking the first boat to Iceland only to be stopped with the green hills in sight and boarded by pirates. Beatings. Forced labor. The pirates had them rowing the gigantic boats during still weather, drums beating to keep them going while they were chained to the benches. Then they were moved to the hold where they were chained down again. John had been separated from the rest due to his tendency to try to escape at every possible opportunity. He had become the example to the rest. They gave him only enough food and water to stay alive, and barely that. The rest of the prisoners were marched past him twice a day while he reached through the bars of the cage to try and snatch at the food the guards dangled in front of him just out of his reach.

Then the crash. Then the ship. Then Sherlock holding him through the night. Then the feel of another man’s cock in his hand and the _power_ he felt when he brought him off. The thrill. The satisfaction of having given someone else pleasure for the first time in his life. Then horror. Fear. Guilt.

“It’s okay,” Holmes purred, stroking his hair, “That’s normal. You’re having mood swings from the stimulus. It will even out. You’ve made me _very_ proud.”

John’s sobs slowed and then stopped. He finally registered that he was lying on a cot with his head in Holmes’ lap, petting his hair and crooning to him. He was covered in his own spunk and so was the hand that thankfully was _not_ stroking his hair.

“Good,” Holmes purred, “So lovely. You’re mine now.”  
  


[CHAPTER 4  
  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/164345.html)

[Art by Julie - Sal Donovan](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/164446.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 4

DATE IS 1689. PREVIOUS CHAPTERS EDITED TO MAKE TIMELINE MORE CONSISTENT (with exception of Magnus). 

**CHAPTER WARNING: John gets schooled on racism. I want to say it’s the last time I’ll bring this frankly distasteful subject up in this piece, but Donovan is becoming this goddess of sass in this story, so it’s probably going to come up again.**

John was fairly certain that he slept for nearly a day in the sickbay. He woke up disoriented and achy, his back, arse, and thighs having scabbed over after Holmes had properly cleaned him up (rum being a poor substitute for actual soap and water). His bladder was full to the point of exploding so he staggered upright and hurried to the door to sickbay to bolt topside and piss over the rails. Problem was pissing wasn’t all he had to do and he wasn’t relishing the idea of shitting over the side of the boat.

“Ah, there you are boy,” Holmes stated cheerfully, “I’ll need you to…”

“How much are the keys to the privy?” John asked, not bothering to hide his distress.

Holmes blinked at him, reached down to his hip, pulled off a key ring, and detached a key. John stared at it hopefully and the man held it out.

“How much?” John asked warily.

“You’ll have plenty of chips by the end of today,” Holmes replied confidently, “I’ll deduct this from it.”

“ _How much_?” John insisted, “How much of a mans dignity does taking a shit cost on this ship?”

“Five chips.”

“Five chips. Well. That’s less than a hammock.”

“Which you don’t need.”

“Which I don’t need _now_ ,” John replied, staring at him angrily. Then he marched off.

“See me when you’re through!” Holmes ordered after him.

John didn’t reply but he knew he’d obey. He had no choice.

XXX

It was adorable watching John posture throughout the day. He didn’t seem to understand that he’d won the respect and even adulation of the crew, so he was still behaving warily around them while they struggled to impress the man who took a punishment for one of them, not to mention stood up to their captain and survived. Meanwhile he completed the more urgent of the cabin boy assignments Sherlock gave him and then stomped over with a determined look.

“I need to see my patient.”

“You haven’t got a patient. That was the point of the cabin boy ruse, remember?”

“Oh, it’s a ruse? So I’ve been running chores for you for laughs, have I?”

“It’s slightly more respectable than announcing that I’m paying you for regular sex, yes.”

John turned several shades of white, red, and green. Sherlock worried he’d faint, but he took a deep breath and replied with: “I need to check on my patient.”

“Perhaps you need to see the doctor,” Sherlock worried, “As I’ve just told you: you _have_ no patient.”

“I need to see the fellow I took a _beating_ for!” John snapped.

“Why? He couldn’t have been your lover. He was stationed on _The Tilly_.”

“Right. I’ll need a skiff over to _The Tilly_ , then.”

“ _Why_?” Sherlock wanted to know.

“Because I didn’t take a beating from him just so you could have him disposed of on another ship!” John snapped.

There was an audible gasp from the crew and John stilled as he apparently _just_ realized how public their conversation was. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and waited for an apology. John squared his shoulders and raised his chin in obvious denial of that expectation. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards slowly and three people behind John backed up several paces.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Sherlock purred.

He propped his foot up on the rails and grasped John’s arm to tug him over his knee. He instinctively fought until Sherlock growled angrily and then he went with it, falling over his knee where Sherlock brought his hand down over his already ravaged bottom five times. John howled shamelessly, voicing his pain at high volume unlike his stubborn silence the night before. When he righted himself he had tears in his eyes that he quickly blinked away.

“I need to see my patient,” John stated firmly, “ _Please_.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and a man behind John adjusted his erection in his trousers while licking his lips, clearly eager for more.

“Very well,” Sherlock nodded, “Mannings! Signal _The Tilly_ and lower the ropes!”

A flash of flags and then Mannings tossed two ropes down. John looked confused and Sherlock grinned as he dragged him over to them.

“Raising and lowering a boat several times over can be so tedious,” Sherlock explained, then he waited for _The Tilly Briggs_ to pull up alongside of their ship, grasped the rope, climbed up a level in the rigging, timed it for a heave in the ship, and swung over to drop down onto the deck of _The Tilly_ where a crewmember politely piped him aboard.

“Come along doctor!” Sherlock shouted, unable to keep his amusement out of his voice, “You have a patient to see!”

John hesitated a moment, then awkwardly and _slowly_ climbed the rigging. He missed four opportunities to swing over before picking the _wrong_ one, and landing on his back on the deck with the wind knocked out of him. Sherlock stood over him and waited for him to gasp in air.

“Not bad for your first try,” Sherlock chuckled, “Although you may have disproved my theory about us being descended from apes.”

“That sounds like sacrilege,” John wheezed as he accepted Sherlock’s hand to rise.

“It is. That’s the point.”

Sherlock led the way down to sickbay while John grumbled about his abused body. The withered young man who had refused to work until he ran into serious debt and was then too _sick_ to work was lying on the bed stinking up the room. The doctor was sitting in the corner smoking a pipe, probably to try and clear the patient’s stench out of the room. John knelt by his bedside and began examining him and questioning him.

“Can you tell me what happened? How did you get to this state? What were your first symptoms?”

“Laziness,” Sherlock replied, “Captain Sal filled me in quite some time ago. A few months ago he started to…”

“I’m asking _him_ ,” John replied sharply, giving Sherlock a reproving look. He was so unused to receiving such looks that his jaw clicked shut and he leaned forward to hear the wheezed reply.

“I started feeling weak and tired a few months into the voyage. It’s my first time at sea so I just thought it was still seasickness, but everyone else had their sea legs by then.”

“Three months in, eh?” John asked curiously, “Go on.”

“My knees started to hurt something fierce and after I climbed the rigging or swabbed the deck I’d barely be able to breathe.”

“I see,” John nodded, “Mind if I take a look at your legs?”

The man nodded weakly and John peeled down his stockings to show Sherlock what looked like hundreds of tiny bruises, some merging to form larger ones.

“Those aren’t bruises. What is it?” Sherlock asked sharply, giving his other doctor an accusing glare, “Is it contagious?”

The other doctor was sweating and looking panicked so John hurried to reassure them.

 “If it’s what I think it is, it’s not contagious,” John replied, “Mr. Wilkes, describe your diet to me.”

“Bread, cheese, some dried meat. Sometimes stew with vegetables, but not often. I don’ like the green stuff.”

 “What about fruits? Apples?”

“Can’t eat apples,” He replied with a headshake, “They make my mouth swell up. Nearly killed me when I was a babe.”

John nodded, “He has scurvy.”

“Idiot!” Sherlock snapped, “We provide fresh fruits and vegetables for a _reason!_ ”

“I was drinking a tea to…” The man started to say when his eyes widened in alarm.

Sherlock spun around, bringing his sword up just in time to knock a knife out of the doctor’s hands. John shouted in alarm and the doctor flung the contents of his pipe in Sherlock’s face. Blind and screaming in pain, he staggered back while throwing his sword up to defend himself. He had little chance to avoid a quick blow from a secondary weapon in this low-ceilinged room without use of his eyes and he knew it, but then he heard several loud thumps and a gurgling sound as if someone were choking.

“You’re safe. Hold still, let me see you,” John’s voice was soft and reassuring as his hands came down on Sherlock’s wrist, lowering his defensive pose, and gently led him to another cot.

Panic was setting in. If he were blind…

“Stay calm,” John spoke softly, “I’m going to clean up your face, but I need to get some clean water first. Do _not_ open your eyes.”

John’s footsteps grew dimmer and Sherlock sat in silence, breathing in the scent of blood in the air. He moved a foot and something warm and slick slid it across the floor. He wiggled his toes in it and recognized the substance as blood- copious amounts of blood.

“The doctor is dead,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes sir,” Wilkes agreed.

“John killed him.”

“The man who just left? His name is John?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess he’s saved both our lives.”

XXX

John gently dabbed damp cloth across Holmes’ face and noted that the burns were superficial. He’d lost a spot of eyebrow, but nothing worse. When asked to open his eyes he blinked as if in pain and John watched the tears shift out the ashes that had strayed inside.

“Follow my finger,” John ordered, and watched the eyes effortlessly track his digit, “Any blurriness? Burning? Absent spots?”

“No, no, and no.”

“You’re a lucky man,” John nodded, “The only ash that got in your eyes was already cool.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Holmes replied sulkily.

_Like a big kid_.

“What was his name?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder at the dead man on the floor.

“Why does it matter?” Holmes asked.

“I’ve never killed a man before,” John replied.

“You’re a doctor, surely you’ve seen death.”

“Yes, but I’ve never been the _cause_ before.”

Lord Holmes considered that a moment before replying, “Dr. Hope. Jefferson Hope.”

“Hope,” John sighed, “What a poor name for a madman.”

“He wasn’t mad,” Holmes scoffed.

“Then why attack you?” John asked in confusion, “I realize he was a shite doctor but…”

“He _wasn’t_ a shite doctor,” Holmes corrected arrogantly, “He was a traitor. Mr. Wilkes here was just about to tell us that he was drinking a tea since he couldn’t eat apples and disliked vegetables. That tea would be an extract of the needles of the Eastern White Cedar, which is a known preventative for scurvy when other means are not available. We have several bushels of the needles on the ship… we also have several bushels of various other pine needles on the ship for use in deodorization of the privy and to stuff the captains’ mattresses. A substitution with the _wrong_ needles wouldn’t lead to a healthy sailor, it would lead to scurvy.”

“So he made a mistake and was covering for it with _murder_?” John asked in disgust.

“He _didn’t_ make a mistake. He made a calculated decision. For the last two voyages he has been the main doctor we’ve utilized, the fellow who abandoned ship having just signed on for this tour. I noticed that more and more of my sailors weren’t reporting in as sick for this tour, but put it down as stubbornness. Now I know otherwise. He was making them _worse_ in order to fill up his debt bag. The sailors might not have known it was intentional, but they started avoiding him. So he made this fellow _truly_ ill so he could live off of him.”

John shook his head in amazement, “You figured all that out when exactly?”

“When he attacked me,” Sherlock replied.

Captain Sal strode into the room with two men behind her. John had informed the duty watchman of their situation while he’d been topside and these men were here to collect the body. John stood and faced them, giving them a polite nod and holding out his hand to the captain.

“Cap’n Sal,” John stated politely, “I’m afraid I was a bit rude last time we spoke. My apologies ma’am.”

“Call me _sir_ ,” She replied sharply, “And what you did was brave… for a white man.”

John blinked. He’d never heard it turned around like that before. What a fascinating creature!

“Begging your pardon… sir… but may I ask how you came to captain a ship?”

She gave him a half grin and cocked her head to one side, her thick curls bouncing about her face, “My mudder was a pirate and my fadder was Poseidon hisself _._ When I was old enough to walk I jumped into da sea, swam to England, demanded dey free mah people, and den took to privateering to prove meself and mah people are equals to da white folk.”

John glanced aside at Sherlock who merely raised an eyebrow at him as if to ask why he would question her story.

“I’m sorry but… equals?” John wondered, “I realize Negros are people and not animals but…”

“But what?” She asked, folding her arms.

“And women aren’t nearly as stupid as most men believe…”

“Ya getting closer to da truth,” Sal snorted.

“Well, it’s just… I mean… if you were equals wouldn’t you have been… civilized when we landed?”

“You evar been to Africa?”

“No, it’s rather far.”

“Any of De Islands where mah people live?”

“No, I can’t say I have.”

“Den you don know shit.”

John blinked.

“Not civilized? We don’t let our chil’ren starve. Not civilized? We don’t buy and sell _people_. Not civilized? We too damn busy surviving animals dat would make you piss ya pretty stockings to build _boats_ and find out if der be _fish_ dat eat us too. How smart do ya tink I am?”

“I’m… sure I don’t know,” John replied, glancing at Sherlock for help. He folded his arms and gave John a look that he interpreted as ‘if you can’t take it don’t dish it out’.

“Let me tell you. I speak tree languages! Tree! How many you speak?”

“Well, I speak English _properly_ ,” John scoffed… and regretted it immediately when her eyes narrowed and she stepped forward.

“You come to my village. You speak _my_ language _pa’fectly_. You sing our songs and survive our insects and beasts. Den you tell me how smart you are. _White boy_.”

John had been backed into a corner during her speech and he swallowed hard as she stared down at him with fierce eyes and a look of revulsion on her face as if he’d put a bad taste in her mouth. She said the word _White_ the way most people would say Negro or _slug_ ; John found himself horrified with that comparison. He nodded his understanding and the woman (person?) stepped out of his space with her chin raised proudly.

“I’m not a stupid Negro. I am a strong _Jamaican_ per-son and I don’t be ashamed of dat. Maybe you take a look at your precious _Englishmen_ and tell me you feel de same, starting wit dis freak here.”

She waved her hand at Sherlock who rolled his eyes and shook his head in amusement, “That’s quite enough Sal. You’ve made your point. Sal, by the way, is _against_ the debt system. She enforces it because she would lose her captaincy otherwise, but she hates it as much as you do. However, that’s not why we’re here. Sal came to see why you killed Dr. Hope.”

“He was attacking you,” John pointed out.

“Yes, but you might have simply restrained him, probably easily in these small quarters. Instead you sought out a weapon and attacked to kill, slicing his jugular. Nice bit of work, by the way.”

“Well… I… he was a _terrible_ doctor,” John replied, feeling as if he were on trial.

“Yes, and? That can’t be your _only_ justification for why you killed someone for the first time,” Holmes prodded.

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” John added firmly.

“How so?” Sherlock asked, “You never exchanged a single word with him.”

“Exactly. What proper Engli… _person_ ,” John corrected, glancing sideways at Cap’n Sal, “Wouldn’t greet someone when they entered his sickbay?”

Holmes paused a moment to take in his response and then laughed until he could barely breathe while John blushed and tried not to laugh as well.

“We can’t laugh,” John stammered, “There’s a dead man in here!”

“And if it were not for you,” Sal pointed out, “Der would be tree.”

John sobered instantly. Of course, the doctor wouldn’t have stopped with killing Holmes, he’d have killed them _all_ and then tried to cover it up somehow. John stared down at the body now wrapped in a hammock and being slowly carried away. He’d basically poisoned a man for nearly a year and had gone out of his way to harm others. John felt any responsibility he might have had for his death vanish with the corpse into the murky sea.

XXX

John spent the rest of the day running errands for Holmes after having Mr. Wilkes transferred over to his own sickbay and providing him with a treatment. Holmes’ requests were usually innocuous; ranging from ‘fetch me this’ to the dreaded task of adjusting the contents of each persons debt bag. John felt sick about the latter, but it also gave him a chance to see where everyone was at and find out if anyone else was sick. There were only two people on _The Toby_ who were so in debt they were sleeping on the floor, and when he questioned them it was apparently due to injuries received during an attack six months earlier. They were well recovered and confident they could earn themselves back into the black.

Then he followed Holmes to _The Gloria_ and back to _The Tilly_ where he was ordered to examine every single person while Holmes made rounds of the ships. He had to truncate his exam- sticking to asking about symptoms and glancing them over- with such a high volume of patients in line, especially since Holmes seemed to have no need of sleep. They were well into the early dawn hours when he finished examining the last patient and John was fit to drop. When told to swing over to _The Toby_ he properly _did_ drop right onto the deck and lay there without a thought of getting up again. Holmes nudged him with his foot.

“Up. You’ve got a bed to warm.”

“Mm,” John agreed, and pulled himself to his feet with Holmes’ assistance.

“Come along, John,” Holmes soothed, putting a hand around his waist that John was too tired to shrug off.

“I may sleep for an entire day,” John whinged.

Holmes chuckled and led the way to… his cabin. John jerked away from him and started stubbornly towards the ladder that led to the mess and the sickbay beside it.

“Where are you going?” Holmes asked in apparent surprise.

“My bed,” John replied sharply.

“Wilkes is sleeping in there.”

“There are two cots.”

Holmes hurried to catch him up and grasped his arm, “Come to _my_ bed.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You _tricked_ me into it the first time and _beat_ me into it the second!” John hissed at him, careful not to get to loud while still leaving the accusation in his voice.

“You loved it.”

That was true and John closed his eyes as his traitorous cock twitched at the memory, “I’m sore. I’m tired. I’m still healing. You’re confusing me. I’d have never betrayed Mary like this under different circumstances.”

“How is it a betrayal of a woman who is married to another man?” Holmes scoffed, “And we can rarely change our circumstances, though you have admirably done so aboard this ship. You _belong_ here. You felt _alive_ earlier. You were _powerful_. I can give you more of that. Come to bed with me.”

“I’m tired.”

“Come to bed and sleep.”

“No.”

“I can _order_ you!” Holmes growled angrily.

“No,” John replied softly, “You can’t. Then you’d be worse than Dr. Hope.”

John tugged his arm free, missing the look of dismay on Holmes’ face, and staggered to the sickbay to collapse into the cot next to his smelly and snoring patient. He’d have to remember to give the fellow a bath the next day if at all possible. His sleep was dreamless, his body lax, but he woke stiff and anxious and it took him a moment to understand why.

“All hands,” A crewman grunted, shaking his shoulder.

“No,” John replied, head dropping back down, “I did research this time. I’m not required to take a watch.”

“ALL hands, Cattle prod.”

“ _Cattle Prod?”_ John asked, coming fully awake.

“You heard me!” The man replied sharply, “Lash him down so he doesn’t get hurt if he can’t fight and get topside.”

“Fight?!” John scrambled up, grabbed the straps, and secured his patient before rushing out the door.

What greeted him was so quiet that he automatically whispered an apology into the fog. It was still early morning, just before sunset, but the lanterns around the ship had been doused, plunging them into a darkness that was only exacerbated by the deep fog around them. Holmes hurried to his side and doused his lantern while John stood dumbfounded.

“John,” Holmes said softy in greeting, not offering an explanation.

“Why are the lanterns out?” John whispered back, “I was told there’d be a fight.”

“And here you are,” Holmes whispered back, his face invisible in the blackness.

“How is no one falling overboard?” John worried.

In response Holmes guided his hand to a rope pulled taught and tied to a ring beside the doorway.

“There’s a web of these throughout the deck,” Holmes explained, “Always to your right. We walk the ship in a circle and cross the deck in three places, or we stay put. Put your hand out in front of you to avoid crashing into anyone. Silence. Absolute silence. No lights.”

“Why?”

“We’re approaching our prey,” Holmes explained, “Keep a good grip on that rope or something else solid. When we strike the ship it will feel like _we’re_ the ones going down and you’ll be tossed to the deck. Try not to wrench your shoulder and treat anyone who is hurt too badly to fight right away. If they can walk they’ll head straight to sickbay. I’ve told them you won’t harm them the way the last surgeon did. Do _not_ engage in battle if people board us. Run.”

“What about the people in the rigging?!” John hissed in alarm.

“They know the risks,” Holmes replied, and didn’t elaborate further.

John thought over what he knew of the ship and other ships out there performing similar tasks. As far as he was aware, Holmes’ ships had the lowest amount of casualties of any seafaring vessel outside of merchant ships. They only engaged in hand to hand when necessary and there had been few injuries or sicknesses beyond the norm even before Dr. Hope was taken on; Holmes’ methods _worked_ , but at great loss to the other side. John recalled a veiled accusation Dimmock had made while he was in too much pain to ask questions.

“You mentioned a brother the other day. That he was trying to keep you away from people due to some… impulses you have.”

Holmes was silent for a moment and John wondered if he’d left without being heard, but then he began to whisper to him in the darkness.

“There’s a philosopher by the name of John Locke. He has a theory that will be published soon, and I wish him well as he is one of the more tolerable people I have met. His theory goes along these lines: ‘knowledge is that everything in our heads\- ideas- comes originally from observation of the real world. False ideas are the result of putting simple observations together in the wrong order. To obtain true ideas we must trace our ideas back to their original observations, to make sure that the ideas in our head hang together in the same order in reality.Reasonis the power we use to trace our ideas back to their original observations.*’ I don’t agree with _all_ of his theories, but on one we do agree. Observation. I am a man of reason and logic, I observe and make deductions based on those observations. My mind works so fast that others struggle to keep up with it. The result is that they see me as mad when in fact it is _they_ who are pitifully slow.”

John didn’t know how to respond to such a show of vanity so he kept silent until he recalled his question hadn’t _actually_ been answered, “Then you kill them?”

“No,” Holmes replied, his voice amused, “Then I _anger_ them. I have killed many people it’s true, even before my assignment to a ship at ten and four years old, but never without reason.”

John’s head was reeling. He’d killed _many people_ before fourteen years old?! Before John could ask another question a soft hiss like a snake went up from one side of the ship to another, lights appeared through the fog in front of them, and Holmes whispered, “Brace yourself!”

Not a second later the ship lurched violently upward and an ungodly scream of metal and wood filled the fog with the voices of the damned. John was thrown backwards against the hatch, luckily missing the handle for the door. He was knocked breathless for a moment and then the ship tipped back forward and he ended up swinging from the rope as his legs were yanked out from beneath him by the vicious bitch gravity. John didn’t even have the breath to scream so he just hung on until he flopped uselessly against the deck as it came steady again. He heard a loud cheer rise up around him and staggered to his feet as the sun pierced through the fog ( _They timed their attack with the sunrise?!)_ and men began swinging from the rigging to the remains of the sinking ship while the majority of the crew stood at the ready to fight off the men tying to scramble from the sinking ship to theirs. Their boat immediately became some hellish cradle and began to bob up and down in the water as the other boat did it’s damndest to suck their ship down with it. Nets and ropes were thrown out, stopping the sinking of the other vessel and the survivors began to scramble for sanctuary. __

In the distance he heard the horns from _The Tilly_ and _The Gloria_ and knew they were surrounding the sinking vessel. Holmes was suddenly at his side again, taking his arm and steadying him.

“There will be injuries on all three ships, can you handle it?”

“No,” John admitted readily.

“I’ll find those who can help. They may have had a surgeon aboard their ship who survived. He’ll be chained, but he’ll help as well. You doctors and your oaths…”

“What about all those people?” John asked in horror, “A ship that size would have how many aboard?”

“Seventy-eight,” Sherlock replied.

“That’s awfully specific.”

“I do my research. We have to wait for fog in order to catch them with their trousers down. There are less deaths that way. Well… on our side.”

John shuddered as he thought of the other watch crew sleeping below decks. They were likely in their watery grave by now.

“John. JOHN!” Holmes snapped his fingers in front of John’s face and brought him back. John felt his face was fixed in horror and gave himself a mental shake, “We aim for the middle for a reason. We’ve hit their food stores and cannons, not their mess. They had time to escape.”

John nodded miserably and then pried his hand free of rope and hatch and staggered forward to deal with the wounded. Sailors were dragging him injured and he was dragging them down into sickbay where they were piled into corners until he couldn’t take on any more. The he began to mend from worse to survivable while more were added to the floor outside the sickbay. By the time he got done bandaging the last injury he was no longer capable of feeling emotions. His head throbbed, his eyes perpetually watered, his stomach had forgotten what food was, and his fingers were numb at the tips. He stood up and stepped over the last man stretched out on the deck of the ship, unaware of when he’d navigated from sickbay, through a sea of injured men, all the way to the deck of… _The Gloria? The Tilly?_ It wasn’t _The Toby_ , that was for damn sure.

“Which ship am I on?” John asked passing sailor, his voice hoarse.

“Doesn’t matter, Prod, you’re not fit to swing to another. Go get some sleep.”

John nodded and curled up where he was. He was asleep before his mind could wonder at being called ‘cattle prod’ twice in a row. 

XXX

Holmes stood over his doctor and would-be lover and frowned. Someone had thrown a blanket over him, which meant that someone somewhere was sleeping _without_ his because John had passed out on the deck. There were two other sailors from _The Tilly_ who had been injured and treated by John, and someone had dragged them over to lie down next to him while he slept; they were covered as well, but presumably by their own blankets. The prisoners, injured and uninjured, had all been transferred to _The Gloria Scott_ where John would be able to swing over and disinfect them to his hearts content until they got them to a port and dumped them into someone else’s care. That should keep his morally upright shipmate happy. He needn’t know they were going to the gallows. 

Sherlock sighed and motioned for two crewmembers from _The Toby_ to step forward. They carefully rolled John on top of the blanket he was borrowing and used it to lift him as if it were a gurney. He didn’t even stir when they lowered him into a boat, nor when they shifted him out again. He made a soft sound as of contentment when they entered Sherlock’s cabin and deposited John on his bed. The man rolled over and snuggled into the blankets, but Sherlock rolled him gently back over and began to clean the blood from his face and hands. He never dismissed his crew, but the two men knew when they weren’t wanted and slipped out silently. It had been two days since he’d last slept and he was exhausted. On one hand his cock still twitched eagerly at having a bedmate, but on the other John had soundly rejected him the day before. He wasn’t going to add rape to his list of sins. Sherlock undressed the doctor and tucked him into bed before stripping and collapsing beside him to fall into a weighty sleep.

*direct quote from <http://studymore.org.uk/bio.htm#Locke>[  
  
](http://studymore.org.uk/bio.htm#Locke)

[CHAPTER 5](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/164652.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Life On the Tobias Redbeard

 

John woke up pressed against the warmth of another body, his dreams supplying Mary’s still undressed figure until he recognized the scent and came fully awake to find himself wrapped in Holmes’ arms. For a moment fear went through him, but a quick assessment of his body noted only the usual aches and pains that came with being awake for ungodly long and working horrifically hard. There was no stickiness or soreness around his… area. John slowly shifted the arm from around his waist, slid his legs free of the tangle of limbs, and then promptly lost his balance and toppled to the floor of the cabin. Naked.

Holmes snorted awake and then sat up, giving him a miserable look.

“Have you woken me just to tell me how much you _loathe_ my touch again?” Holmes asked, apparently deep in melancholy, “You were happy enough to press to my warmth all night and the last two, but once you’re through with me…”

Holmes rolled over dramatically, tossing an arm over his eyes and groaning as if he were the loneliest man on earth. John swallowed down his pang of remorse and stood up in a tiff.

“Well if you weren’t such a bastard maybe you wouldn’t be lost for a bedmate on a ship full of… of…”

Holmes’ head shot up and he narrowed his eyes at John, “I’d mind whatever word you were about to spit out. I’m not as courteous as Sal is when defending my person against slander. I’ll also remind you my touch was quite welcome not long ago.”

“It feels like ages,” John groaned, rubbing at his face, “Where are my clothes?”

“The flannel bin, they’re useless for anything save that,” Holmes replied, resuming his fainting pose.

“And what am I to wear?!” John gaped, “Those were my only clothes!”

“Is that why they stank so dreadfully?” Holmes asked around his arm.

“It costs a chip for soap!” John shouted, “Which is why _half your crew_ reek!”

“The soap lasts months, even when used on your clothes…”

“They’re paid at the end of the voyage! There’s no reason for this lunacy! Just let them do their duties and flog them if they don’t!” John ranted.

Holmes lowered his arm and stared at John carefully, “Would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Flog them.”

“What?”

“I can trust the other captains to _their_ ships, but mine…”

“You don’t trust yourself to flog them?” John asked in confusion, “Why?”

Holmes’ eyes slid away and understanding dawned.

“This is that thing about your brother not trusting you,” John realized, “You like hitting them. You’re afraid you won’t be able to judge when you should and shouldn’t.”

Holmes shifted onto his side and curled up, looking small and vulnerable with the blanket tight against himself. John drew closer out of curiosity.

“It was my first captaincy. I was fifteen. _The Gloria Scott_ ,” Holmes replied softly as John sat down on the edge of his bed with fear curling in his stomach, “I was too young for it, but I was too smart, too stubborn, too curious to keep at home. Mycroft- my brother- had sent me away the year before when he caught me cutting up animals in the back yard and I quickly took over the ship.”

“Mutiny?” John asked in alarm.

“No. Not necessary. I manipulated the captain and first mate. By the time we hit our first payload they were entirely obedient to me. They still are.”

John’s eyes widened, “You don’t mean…”

“Lestrade and Donovan, yes. Donovan still hates me for it, but she loves me too. After all, I gave her what she likely never would have had.”

“Her own ship.”

“My brother was willing to overlook an Island woman being First Mate, but Captain? Never. We captured two pirate ships and I declared them captains and pulled into a harbour to start renovations. I designed the alterations to the ships myself after studying architecture and boat structure for a week. They all told me it would never float. It did. They told me it would never _sail_. It did. They told me it would fall apart at the first strike. It survived. I brought home a gigantic haul and lost only three men. Even my brother had to acknowledge my superiority as captain.”

John nodded still thinking of how he’d patched up nearly the entire crew of the other ship, but there had only been about four injuries to their own crew.

“Someone challenged you?” John guessed.

“No,” Holmes laughed, “I wish it had been something as vicious as mutiny. No, they were all amused by the genius child captain and alternated between placating me and obeying me. It was the former I took offense to and decided I must put to an end. One particular sailor had a son my age. He doted on me, petted my hair, and offered me candy whenever he managed to get some from a port. It disgusted me. One day he did it in front of several crewmen and they _laughed_ John. I can’t stand to be laughed at. I went down to my cabin, found Lestrade’s old bullwhip, and walked up to the deck with it. I beat him with it. I beat him and fought off everyone who tried to stop me after the fifth lash. I was a skilled swordsman. It took Lestrade to disarm me and even then I screamed and ranted in outrage. By the time they managed to subdue me the man was dead.”

John sat still on the bed, a corner of the blanket covering his privates, as he tried to decide how to react to that story. He’d killed a man in cold blood, a man who had done him no harm, all to make the crew take him more seriously? Yet he was barely a man when he’d done so, and he appeared to feel guilty at the very least.

“So where do the chips come in?” John wondered carefully while he debated the horror of the story in his mind.

“I needed a way to make sure no one was punished for undue reasons,” Sherlock explained, “The chips are mathematical. Math can’t lie.”

_It’s all structured with him. He kills, but so long as he has a good reason there’s no harm in it. He punishes, but so long as someone deserves it there’s no guilt. He’s treating life like a card game._

“You’ll get rid of your system if I deal out the punishments?” John asked.

“If it’s you then I know it’s fair. You’re a morally upstanding man. You’d never kill needlessly, or harm for that matter.”

“What of you? You _enjoy_ the beatings. You enjoyed beating me. How will you get your fix?”

Holmes favoured him with an intense look and then sat up, his bedclothes sliding down to reveal his pale chest. The nipples hardened in the chill of the room and John shivered as his body reminded him of how _warm_ he’d been beneath those covers. Their eyes were locked and John could feel the powerful thrum of desire through his body.

“I _do_ enjoy beating you, and I believe I mentioned I’d like to do so again,” Holmes purred, his deep voice reaching places in John’s body that he was deeply ashamed of.

John swallowed, “You’ll ease off the crew, eliminate the chip system, leave punishment and care of the crew to me, if I let you beat me?”

“Among other things,” Holmes whispered, his lips brushing against John’s. _When had he gotten so close_?

John’s breath fluttered in his lungs. Holmes brushed his lips teasingly over John’s and then moved sideways to kiss along his jaw, his teeth teasing at his ear. John’s cock was hardening beneath the blanket and he clutched at it in fear and loathing.

“This isn’t who I am?” John whispered, and then wanted to take the questioning tone back.

“Yes,” Holmes whispered to him softly, “Yes it is.”

John heard someone whimper and hoped it wasn’t him. Stubble brushed against his face, burning his flesh, and sent electric shocks down to his cock that drew a gasp out of him. A hand stroked along his side, tickling for a moment before turning firm and strong as it slid towards his back where it pressed to the small of his back until John was obliged to inch closer.

“H-how,” John drew back again, trying to get a grasp on his mind, “How do I know I can trust you to stop? To not go too far and…”

“As if I’d ever kill _you_ , my doctor,” Holmes replied, his voice rasping with desire as he sat back to meet John’s eyes, “I’ve never met someone who liked it before despite spending the last twelve years of my life around privateers and pirates. You’re someone who stands up to me without fear. You always seem to know right from wrong… you make me _question_ myself. No one has ever done that before.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Usually I do,” Holmes replied, “Sometimes it’s… unclear. Usually it’s little things like the soap, but I’m always waiting for it to be something big.”

“Like Wilkes.”

Holmes nodded, “I should have _known_.”

“Without the doctor explaining it…”

“I should have _observed_.”

“You only saw him for a few seconds…”

“And within a few seconds of seeing you lying on that floating prison I knew you were a doctor who was chasing after a lost lover. I knew you’d left home seven months prior. I knew you were going to Iceland and had been captured a day before you reached it.”

“That’s… amazing. I haven’t told anyone that. Not even you.”

“I knew you were as attracted to men rather than women,” Sherlock growled, trying to tug him back.

“Wh-what?”

“You are,” Holmes replied, leaning forward again, “You can’t stop staring at me.”

“You’re… _ahem_ … you’re pretty for a man and it’s been a while since I was near a woman…” John replied, shifting away and wishing his erection had diminished.

“What colour are your former fiance’s pubic hairs?” Holmes asked.

“What? You can’t guess?” John snapped angrily.

“I don’t make _guesses_ ,” Sherlock replied, “You don’t know because you’ve never _looked_.”

“Mary is the most innocent and sweet…”

“It’s very easy to be morally upstanding when you haven’t got the _urge_ to take a peek at her muff.”

John stammered and sputtered but Holmes decided to bypass the argument and pushed his hand and blanket out of the way to take his cock in hand. John moaned, eyes rolling back as the rough hand stroked across his sensitive cock, working the foreskin back and rubbing his precum around the head with his thumb. John was panting for it, his body aching for release, but he pulled away anxiously anyway.

“I just…” He stammered when Holmes stood up, his myriad eyes taking on the hue of storm clouds. John backed away until he had no more room to go and pressed against the wall, “I have to piss.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do,” John pleaded, “I’ve been asleep for ages. Of course I do. _Observe._ ”

Holmes sighed and backed away, “There are britches in the drawer beneath the bed.”

John scrambled into them and was about to bolt out of the room when Holmes grabbed his arm and tugged him back.

“Don’t think I didn’t see the way you reacted when our faces dragged together. You _want_ this.”

John lifted his jaw challengingly and stared him down, “That may be so but you’re not just going to _get_ me. You eliminate the chip system, make things that should be available for everyone _readily_ available, find a way to keep your crew active _without_ the chip system, and I’ll let you have me.”

Holmes’ eyes flashed, “It will take a few days to organize…”

“Then you’ll wait a few days.”

Holmes gave his arm an angry shake but then released him, “When I’m done I’m going to rub my stubble all over your body. Every inch. Do you think you’ll like or hate it when it rubs over the tip of your hard cockhead?”

John swallowed, his cock making a confusing attempt to retract and swell at the same time. He made a rather embarrassing squeaking sound and fumbled for the latch to the door.

“Not yet. When you do the right thing I’ll… I’ll… reward you. Or something.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, “Indeed.”

XXX

Greg grinned as he tugged his breeches up, tucked in his shirt, and fastened his belt. The gorgeous woman draped across the bed was stirring and he wanted to see the happy, sleepy look on his face. Molly sighed and rolled over, stretching like a cat. Greg sat on the edge of the bed to adjust his stockings and buckle his shoes while she smiled up at him.

“Well?” Greg asked cheerfully.

“What, do you want me to _thank_ you?” Molly laughed musically.

Greg chuckled, “You’ve been spending time around Sherlock again. It’s time to hide all those gorgeous curves.”

Molly sighed and stood up, spreading her arms out level with the floor while her body moved easily with the sway of the ship. Greg picked up the length of bandages that he had slowly removed from her the night before and slowly re-wrapped her in them, lifting and adjusting her breasts to hide them. It was as sensual an act as undressing her and he performed it with a possessive glance into her eyes whenever he passed her smirking face. Padding at her waist was added, then he dressed her with the same attention he’d bound her. The final pull was a bandana to tuck her long hair into, a fake moustache, and a bit of dirt strategically placed to diminish her cheekbones. It worked so well that even Greg barely recognized her once she was done up, and it was all courtesy of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly saluted her husband and then marched out of the cabin to ring the duty bell. The crew thought their First Mate was a partial mute so she communicated with flags, hand signs, and a chalkboard. He’d even seen her get creative one day and use a flageolet to make disapproving sounds at a crewman who wasn’t working fast enough. None of them knew she was a woman. That was for two reasons, the first being that she was on the run from her drunkard father who had tried to sell her off to pay off his gamboling debts; the second was because most of the men on this ship were the superstitious type and had already opted not to be on the ship with either the female captain or the mad captain.

Greg stepped out of his cabin and then stared at the chaos that greeted his eyes. Crewmen were running everywhere, talking loudly and waving their arms about. _Nothing_ was getting done and they were listing to port! Molly, AKA First Mate Hooper, was blowing shrilly on her whistle and trying to get everyone to pay attention. Greg joined her by shouting at them and even tried to tug on a few ropes himself before damage was done to the ship. He wasn’t successful and then he heard a loud shout ring up above the rest with a familiar deep voice behind it.

“SHUT! _UP_!” Holmes hopped down of the rail and pointed at two people, “YOU TWO! MAINSAILS! YOU THREE BACK TO THE CHIPS OR YOU’LL BE FLOGGED! THE REST OF YOU BACK TO YOUR DUTIES!”

Sherlock hopped down and headed for Greg with a smile that the Captain of _The Gloria Scott_ had missed of late.

“You look cheerful,” Greg noted.

“I’ve won a debate,” Sherlock grinned.

“What debate would that be?”

“The one where my cabin boy refuses to let me beat and fuck him until get rid of the chip system and let him beat the crew!”

Greg’s face must have given away how absolutely horrified he was because Sherlock laughed and then put up a hand to stop him shouting at him.

“Relax! It’s not what it sounds like.”

“Then say what you bloody mean!” Greg replied, his body relaxing a bit as the ship settled properly.

“I’m getting rid of the chip system. Everyone is a bit flustered about that bit actually,” Sherlock added, looking around in confusion, “I thought they _hated_ it.”

“They do, but now they’re waiting for you to screw them over,” Greg sighed.

“I would never do that,” Sherlock frowned, “Why would they think I’d do that?”

“Because you’re a bloody madman!” Anderson snarled as he ran past with his arms full of chip bags. A man was chasing after him shouting about all the chores he’d done to earn his.

“No I’m _not!_ ” Sherlock shouted after Anderson, but he was out of earshot so he turned to Greg with a frown, “I’m _not_.”

“No, you’re not,” Greg soothed, “You’re just a bit… off. What’s Anderson doing on my ship?”

“Yes. Off,” Sherlock frowned, staring around himself as he absorbed all the details of the men’s lives… or whatever it was Sherlock usually deduced, “You’ll be meting out punishments as you see fit from now on.”

“Okay. So like every other ship out there?”

“Run drills to keep them in shape,” Sherlock replied, “We’ll be having them practice taking over each other’s ships.”

“That’s… a simple solution.”

“You disagree with it?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” Greg replied with a headshake, “I’m just… surprised. You usually go for complicated or dramatic.”

“It was John’s suggestion.”

“Who?” Molly asked, softly enough that no one else would hear her.

“The doctor we picked up from the wreckage attack before last,” Greg supplied.

“Oh, he seemed nice,” Molly nodded cheerfully.

“How _do_ people take you seriously?” Sherlock wondered.

Molly scoffed at him and Sherlock turned back to Greg, “John will be punishing people on my ship.”

“ _John_?” Greg asked in confusion, “I thought he was a _doctor_. I thought you just said you wanted to beat _him_?”

“I do. This was the best way to get that to happen.”

“Right, okay. Sure,” Greg folded his arms and tried to understand, but then shook his head, “No, explain it to me.”

“John wants the ship chip free. He knows I have a temper-”

“You don’t have a temper, you’re the coolest head I know. Creepily so. A flair for the dramatics sure, but…”

“I might have lied about the temper.”

“Oh, that’s more like you, yeah,” Greg nodded.

“Anyway, he no longer trusts me to punish the men-“

“So why would he let _you_ hit him for kicks?”

“-Because he _wants_ me to!” Sherlock replied gleefully, “He just needed an excuse to agree!”

“Why?” Greg asked, completely at a loss.

“I have no idea! That’s why it’s so utterly fascinating!”

“So you’re just going to abuse this man?” Greg asked, his temper starting to rise.

“Of course not! He _wants_ it! That’s what makes this so wonderful! I’m guilt free!”

“Sherlock, that’s _sick_. He’s clearly unwell!” Greg stammered in alarm.

“I _love_ it,” Sherlock exclaimed, getting into Greg’s personal space the way he usually did when he was excited, “It was fun hitting the others, but it always felt _wrong_ somehow, like I _shouldn’t_ be enjoying it. Then John volunteered and I thought I’d lose my mind with how _perfect_ it was! He was so _alive_ under my hand! Greg! Don’t you _see!?_ ”

“All I see is you spouting off about enjoying hurting people in _earshot_ of the crew who already don’t trust you.”

“But I won’t _have_ to hit them anymore! John will let me hit him! _Consent_ , Greg! I felt _awful_ for liking hitting them. I had to make sure I didn’t look for excuses to do it. Now I don’t have to worry about any of that anymore.”

“I’m… so glad for you,” Greg replied awkwardly as he watched sailors stare at them in fear.

“Anyway, John will be judge, jury, and executioner. Well… hopefully not _literal_ executioner,” Sherlock laughed.

Greg’s jaw didn’t _feel_ like it was on the ground, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t anywhere near his face anymore.

“You’ll see,” Sherlock grinned, “Everything is looking up. Anderson! If they want the chips so much let them keep them! They’re worthless now!”

Sherlock strode off and Greg stood on deck unsure of how he should take this bit of news.

XXX

Sherlock knew he had to confront it. It was only a matter of time. He’d put it off for so long though that he’d begun to think he’d never have to face it at all. Yet if he wanted to begin this bizarre relationship with John he had to deal with his demons and make sure they did not surface while he was enjoying John. He’d start at the beginning, as was logical.

_Mycroft sat him down to tea. While he and his brother disagreed constantly he was also the only person to mentally stimulate him. He treated him a peculiar combination of child and adult that appealed to the young teen._

_“I’m having a bit of a problem on one of my ships, brother. Perhaps you can shed some light on it.”_

_“I thought_ you _were the luminous one?” Sherlock snarked._

_“Don’t be smart. I need an inside eye and the crew has dried up completely. They’re refusing to talk and I’d rather not resort to torture. It’s always so much less effective than the torturer seems to think.”_

_Mycroft sighed as if put upon and Sherlock folded his arms in a sulk, “You’re proposing I sign on as_ cabin boy, _but we both know I want a captaincy.”_

_“I’ll give it to you.”_

_“You’re lying. No one would follow a captain who is barely an adult. That’s why you keep telling me to work my way up.”_

_“They will if you save them from certain death.”_

_“And they call_ me _dramatic. State your case plainly.”_

_Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes, “The crew has been experiencing alarmingly high fatalities of late, but only of the lower ranks. The upper ranks have been unharmed, even_ uninjured _.”_

_“No injuries? An odd occurrence on a privateer’s ship,” Sherlock nodded, “Go on.”_

_“Of course, the gold, spices, and jewels coming in are far more important in the king’s eyes, but… I have a bad feeling about this particular situation.”_

_“That and you’ve got a terrible crush on the first mate,” Sherlock smirked._

_“Gregory is… quite uninterested,” Mycroft replied, looking away, “However he_ does _desire the captaincy so…”_

_“You’re worried he’s sabotaging the captain?”_

_“The thought has crossed my mind. Either him or the woman he conspires with, that Negro woman.”_

_“_ Island _woman,” Sherlock corrected, “Well then, I’ll look into it. I expect you to keep your promise, brother.”_

_“Just don’t make it impossible to keep,” Mycroft warned, to which Sherlock silently hoped was not one of his brother’s eerily accurate predictions._

_XXX_

The Gloria Scott _was beautiful, but not the least bit perfect. When Sherlock brought his alterations to the captain, complete with blueprints and his brother’s seal of approval, he was literally smacked down. Smarting in more ways than one and fully aware that he couldn’t actually contact his brother for several more months, he carefully went about his duties without stirring up any more trouble. It was immediately obvious that Lestrade and Donovan were innocent of the corruption that Mycroft suspected them of, but it was also obvious why he’d thought so as the captain was adept at sliding the blame onto others. He was manipulative in the extreme and his plan was soon obvious. He intended to turn pirate and take the crew- those alive- with him. The rest would either perish during the voyage or be his scapegoat._

_Sherlock had planned to gather evidence and report to his brother, but one day he walked out on the deck and the scene before him was one of absolute horror. Lestrade was on the deck, a pool of blood surrounding him, while the captain stood over him with a bullwhip in his hands. Sherlock drew his sword instinctively and ran forward to run the captain threw, but the man turned and swung the whip at Sherlock instead. A sharp crack sounded through the air and pain lanced through his arm. He glanced down at the useless appendage, the bone protruding through his flesh, and stared up in horror as the captain laughed uproariously at him. Behind him Lestrade was dragging himself upright, his face pale and his eyes wide with concern… for Sherlock._

_“Please. He’s just a kid. Leave him out of it.”_

_The captain swung on Lestrade again and this blow would surely end the brave man but his other cabin boy friend- a young girl masquerading as a boy- rushed forward and threw herself over his body. Her bandages likely spared her most of the damage, but blood welled up beneath torn fabric nonetheless._

_Sherlock’s body rallied past the shock settling in at the sight of that blood on his only friend’s body. He flew forward, caught the whip as the captain held it behind himself for another strike, and tore it from his hand. With his dominant hand out of the mix it was difficult to defend himself, but he managed to lash the whip at the captain several times and strike him in the face. Screaming in pain and with blood spilling into his eyes, the man stumbled backwards and over the quarterdeck rail where he fell to the waist below._

_The fall wasn’t horrifically high, but the angle was against him and the man lay with his eyes open and his neck twisted at an unnatural position. A scream went up from the forecastle and Sherlock looked up to see a thin young man running out of the galley entryway where he’d been watching the display. His eyes were streaming tears and he threw himself down beside the captain’s body and cradled his bloodied head in his lap._

_“Sebby! No! Please, no!” He sobbed._

_Sherlock stared at the broken lad a moment, unable to place his name or face so that he appeared faceless in the memory, and then fainted away from the pain. When he woke up it was to find that Donovan had led a mutiny and slaughtered all those that captain Moran had used to control the ship. They were short on sailors and sleep, but most had survived._

_“We’re going to ‘ave to go pirate,” Donovan told him miserably, “No madder da cause, dey don’t allow mutiny. I give you a chance since you just a babe. We let you off next port wid a bag o’ eights and you make ur own way. You don mention us. Evar. Odderwise we all swing fer dis.”_

_“No we won’t,” Sherlock replied, “Not if we alter the facts before we take on a few new crewmen. Another couple of ships and the treasure they’re carrying would help bolster my brother’s story.”_

_“Who yer brodder den?” Donovan asked._

_“Mycroft Holmes.”_

_“The leader of dah Redheaded League?” She gasped, staring at him wide eyed._

_“Yes. My real name is Sherlock Holmes, not Sherlock Sigerson. I was sent here to figure out what was going wrong on this ship. I suppose I arrived a bit too late. Did Lestrade survive?”_

_Donovan nodded, “What dis great plan den, Freak?”_

_Sherlock blinked at the nickname. Getting a nickname was akin to being accepted as part of the crew_ by _the crew, which was something that his last four months had not allowed for. They’d steadfastly been disturbed by his shifting eyes and penchant for staring. Now she was dubbing him ‘Freak’, and while it was a less than pleasant name it was also_ his _and a testament to his joining the ship as a brother-in-arms._

_“Here’s what we do…” Sherlock explained._

_When they pulled into port a year and a half later it was to be greeted by his brother while wearing a captain’s jacket. He strode down the gangway proud as a peacock and reported that the captain had died in a skirmish, leaving Sherlock in charge. As evidence he presented his brother with two new and perfect ships- three if you counted the fact that they had all been rebuilt- and obscene amounts of booty. His brother had raised an eyebrow and carefully_ not _questioned him. Even he couldn’t protect his brother from a charge of mutiny. It was better just to congratulate him and hope he’d planned to keep the real events secret._

Sherlock sighed as he shifted out of his Mind Palace and surveyed the room around him. John was whittling in a corner to pass the time, his sickbay empty of patients for the moment. Sherlock was stretched out after having pleaded a headache in order to get the attention of his erstwhile cabin boy and soon-to-be-lover. The man had made him willow bark tea, rubbed his temples, and left him to ‘sleep it off’. He was gorgeous just sitting there in the corner pretending to be _normal_ and _boring_. They both knew he wasn’t either. This was a man of exceptional abilities and mental stamina. Not intelligent no, but not dull either. His mental faculties were as unique as Sherlock’s were, but just in a different way. He was the sun to Sherlock’s darkened window, brightening the desk so all the letters and numbers were visible for his perusal. He made it allas clear as the tropical waters Donovan’s people hailed from, brilliant and blue as his eyes.

_Careful, Sherlock. If you fall in love with him it will only be worse for you. Caring is_ not _an advantage.  
  
_

[CHAPTER 6](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/165504.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 6

John was a curious mixture of anxious and excited. Sherlock and he had stroked each other to completion more than once in the three days since he’d started reorganizing the ship, but they hadn’t done anything remotely resembling the blissful pain that John was longing for as much as Sherlock was. He was withholding his consent for the good of the crew, and in order to bide himself time to figure out who he was and what he wanted. Sherlock was sailing around the known world stopping pirates and collecting gold from the Spanish Main, which wouldn’t take him near Iceland for the foreseeable future. That didn’t mean that they wouldn’t be turned around at the next port and sent in that direction, but John wasn’t certain what his plans were now. He had intended to stop the wedding, but it was long past now. He could still free her, but in what state? Would she be traumatized by her forced life? Would she have fallen in love with her husband? Or would she still love the old John and that man be altered from his voyage to her? 

_Can I even leave this task I’ve started?_

John sat up in their bed. He was alone right now because Sherlock barely ever slept even when he wasn’t on watch, but he was experiencing quite the sleepless night himself. He decided to go topside and lurk about the darkened night. John didn’t keep watch hours, preferring to sleep at night and wake during the day rather than switch off with half of the crew. This way he was always available to them on one day or the other, and if necessary they woke him up, but it also meant that John and Sherlock only shared a bed every other night. He often found himself missing the man despite their short- albeit intense- acquaintance. When that happened he would head out into the ship, wandering through the bowels of the creaking wooden and metal whale, and seek out his absent lover. He would find Sherlock wherever he was and just talk to or smell him. 

This time he searched high and low and found no sign of him. Finally a crewman took pity on the blanket-clad man- he still didn’t own a coat- and directed him to the stern of the ship where he was hanging from the bowsprit via a complicated set of ropes and pulleys.

“That looks like fun,” John commented, leaning as far over the ledge as he dared.

“Come to sniff my coat?” Sherlock teased.

“Yeah, but I think I’ll settle for talking,” John replied, laughing at himself rather than defend his odd urge, “What are you doing?”

“Checking for damage. You don’t think these ships just _stay_ unsinkable.”

John shook his head in amusement, “What do you do if you find it?”

“Patch it if possible, put into port if it’s not possible.”

“How do you patch metal?” John wondered, “Doesn’t it take a forge?”

“Normally, yes,” Sherlock nodded, “You’ve heard of gas, I presume?”

“Mmm, nope.”

“It’s a substance that comes up out of the ground; no scent, no colour, but absolute power. It is flammable…”

“What isn’t?”

“It burns without _fuel_. It _is_ a fuel. A weightless fuel.”

“How is that even possible? It sounds akin to dragons!” John laughed.

“I believe it’s what _caused_ the legend of dragons,” Sherlock explained as he tapped away at the hull with a tiny hammer, apparently listening to the sound in order to find flaws, “I’ve seen holes in the ground that spout flame for days and nights on end. It almost seems alive.”

“Is it?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied, glancing up with an irritated look on his face, “Of _course_ it isn’t. Don’t be idiotic, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Hmm,” John muttered, “When will you be done?”

Sherlock glanced up, “Looking for a bit of… entertainment?”

“Not that sort,” John snorted, “Not till after the drills. When I’m certain you’ve turned this ship around…”

“You’ll give me your consent,” Sherlock finished with an angry growl, “It feels less and less like a reward and more and more like a treasure I should _take_.”

“That’s the funny thing about consent,” John chuckled, “It’s the one thing you can’t ever get by force.”

“Not the only thing,” Sherlock replied, but then went back to his work and ignored John when he called down to him again. He hadn’t even properly finished explaining how things worked. 

The next morning John woke to a loud racket in their cabin. He scrambled upright, pulling blankets up to cover his nudity, and stared in confusion at the men slogging rope into the room. Sherlock followed them in and pointed out six locations while loudly proclaiming them to the crew. John knew that the crew knew what he and Sherlock were up to, but he wasn’t thrilled with them seeing it first hand. 

“Uh, Sherlock? What the hell is this?”

“Your first name is Sherlock?” One of the crewmen asked in surprise.

“You _have_ a first name?” Another wondered.

“Rope. Hanging. Get to it,” Sherlock snapped.

“That wouldn’t be _that_ sort of hanging, would it?” John wondered, “Because I thought _I_ was to handle the punishments?”

“Oh, this isn’t for the _crew_ to be punished on,” Sherlock smirked, “This is for _you_ to be punished on.”

With that he supervised the hanging of a rope harness, fit with pulleys, much like the one he’d been sitting in while working on the hull in the night. Once it was set up Sherlock dismissed the men and began adding padding to it by wrapping some of the ropes in cloth and weaving a sort of seat into it. His work was hypnotizing and John found himself watching with his head cocked to one side and his mouth slightly open.

“You look silly,” Sherlock snickered.

“Sorry,” John replied, shutting his mouth and shifting about on the bed, “What’s that for?”

“I loathe repeating myself.”

“Right. It’s for punishing me. What have I done wrong?” John asked, challenge in his voice.

“Nothing. It’s not for _that_ sort of punishment.”

“Admiral!” Trevor shouted from above, “Admiral! Cloud heads!”

“Damn!” Sherlock shouted angrily, “We were ahead of it!”

XXX

John spent the entire storm sick in bed, clutching onto the side of the bed for dear life. Afterwards he treated two injured sailors while dry heaving for what felt like hours as the ship still rolled and tossed. There was damage on _The Gloria Scott_. It’s main mast had been hit by some flying debris and it had cracked the keel. The ship was taking on water badly. Everyone scrambled to rearrange their lives as _The Gloria_ was all but abandoned and the other two were set up to tow it. Four men stayed on at a time to keep pumping water out day and night. John’s sickbays on both ships had the overflow of people who wouldn’t fit in the mess on either ship. Luckily John didn’t sleep in them so he wasn’t put out at all. 

Or so he thought.

“ _Captain’s_ cabin, John,” Sherlock sighed, “Lestrade sleeps here.”

“Then where will _we_ sleep?” John demanded. 

“ _I_ will sleep here,” Sherlock replied, “Lestrade is hanging a hammock.”

“So I can still sleep in your bed with…”

“No,” Sherlock replied sharply, “Lestrade is tolerant of many things, but seeing you in my bed will disturb him.”

“I thought you didn’t put up with that sort of view?” John argued.

“I put up with _views_ , I don’t put up with _prejudice_. Lestrade has a right to find our relationship disgusting; I find his repulsive as well. As such both you and Hooper are out of a bed to warm.”

John snorted at his arrogance, “So where do I warm _myself_ , then?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Sherlock replied in a singsong voice.

“What about I hang a hammock here too?”

“No room.”

“There’s none in the mess or my sickbay either!” John snapped.

“What a predicament,” Sherlock mused.

“Why are you doing this?”

Sherlock smiled slowly, “You noticed.”

“That you’re punishing me by removing my sleeping situation? Yes. I noticed. Why?”

Sherlock crossed the room, his eyes flashing with anger, and hissed his answer to John once he was directly in his face: “You promised me your _consent_.”

John tried to step back only to find there _was_ no room to back up. His head hit the curved wall and he winced. 

“You’ve got it,” He whispered.

“Have I?”

“Y-yes,” John replied hesitantly, and then steeled himself and straightened his spine despite the fact it meant pressing himself chest to chest with Sherlock, “Yes. Yes you have.”

Sherlock reached a hand up and curled it in John’s hair, pulling it painfully as he slowly moved John’s face closer to his. A moment and then Sherlock’s lips slowly brushed against his and John let his eyelids flutter closed. Sherlock’s hand slipped up John’s chest and then slid back down, dragging his fingernails as he went. When he reached John’s hip he slipped his hand behind him and dug his fingernails into his arse. John arched into him, body tingling, and Sherlock purred in contentment.

“I’ll talk to Lestrade,” He whispered against John’s mouth, and then moved quickly away.

XXX

John was adorable. Sherlock had to admit that much. He’d coerced Lestrade into letting John stay in the room with them by pointing out that Molly would have nowhere to sleep except in a hammock with _another man_ (as would John) since there was literally no room left on either boat. Lestrade gave in immediately and he and Molly shared his hammock while Sherlock curled up with John… who promptly settled in against his back and buried his nose in Sherlock’s curls. 

John’s breath was softly huffing against his hair, his snores soft while on his side, one arm tight around Sherlock’s body while the other was curled between them. Their legs were intertwined and Sherlock couldn’t imagine anything more intimate, not even the most intense sex. Of course until recently he’d had a limited view of what ‘intimate’ was, usually being limited to rentboys at dock since he refused to fraternize with the crew after his very first lover thought sex gave him permission to run the ship behind his back. Victor hadn’t gotten over the slight of Sherlock dumping and then flogging him in the eight years that had followed, though he’d remained on as 1st Mate anyway.  

Sherlock wasn’t tired. He’d only laid down with John on principle due to Lestrade’s awkwardness about Sherlock having a male lover. It was true the man was happy for him; he’d been thrilled when he’d heard the rumour and Sherlock had confirmed it, but he didn’t want to _see_ anything. So Sherlock was only showing him enough to make him feel smug about having John as his lover. Now that he was curled up and Lestrade had gone to sleep he intended to extricate himself, but John had gone and curled up around him like a limpid and it was rather difficult to remove himself. He had no qualms about waking him, but it was nice to have him pressed willingly against him when only a few days before he’d been sure the man would never let him near again. Now he was positively _insisting_ on being in Sherlock’s bed, and it wasn’t just because he wanted a warm place to sleep. It would have been easy to suggest he and Hooper sleep in the hammock while Lestrade and Sherlock take the bed, but he’d fought for the right to lay with Sherlock and then positively clutched him against himself as if he thought Sherlock would escape. So Sherlock was still in bed. Wide awake. Miserable. Bored. Brain attempting to crawl out of his ears. Because John wanted him there. 

_I’m so royally fucked._ __

**A/N: So my teacher in school taught me the origin for the word fuck: Frequent Use of Carnal Knowledge, which he said began being used under Gen. Hooker during the Civil War in America. My research shows this to be false and you can read about that here:** **[ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuck) **

XXX

John was being tortured. Horribly, brutally, and viciously tortured. Sherlock had received his consent with a look on his face that said he’d just been handed the entire world on a platter… and then done nothing with it. Less than nothing, actually, since he had also stopped their nightly wank sessions. John had thought it was because Lestrade and Hooper were sharing the room with them, but when he’d managed to corner him alone they hadn’t gone past snogging. Sherlock had pulled away with a heavy sigh and told him it wasn’t happening.

“What? Why?” John asked, hard and aching for release.

“Because you gave me your consent, but I want _more_ than that.”

“What? What more can I possibly give you?!”

“The one thing that every single religious fool believes they’ve been gifted with by God. Your free will,” Sherlock purred.

“What?” John asked, his expression aghast.

“I want you to kneel before me, beg for my cock, and _worship_ it. I want your unyielding fealty. Your _obedience_. Your-“

“Do you think this is _sexy?!_ ” John asked in disgust, backing away from him despite his continuing ardour, “Do you think I _want_ something like that? My body you can have just fine, but not _that_. I’ll not give you my _soul_!”

“Then you’ll not have any part of _my_ body,” Sherlock replied, his eyes flashing with anger, “Don’t you dare touch yourself until-“

“Fuck you. _Fuck you_ Sherlock Holmes!” John shouted angrily, “I’ll touch any part of myself I want.”

“Very well then,” Sherlock smirked, stepping back leaning against a stack of crates with his arms folded, “Go to it.”

John stood still for a moment, confused and frustrated, “What?”

“Go to it. You’re still hard as a rock. Toss off,” Sherlock nodded to John’s crotch.

“Fine,” John snapped defiantly, “I will. Just you try and stop me.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John pulled his britches down, untying the wraps, and took himself firmly in hand. Sherlock leaned against the opposite wall and alternated between watching John’s hand flying over his prick and his face. His eyes shown like pools, their colour changing until John was more focused on them than what his own hand was doing even as it sped over his aching member. He was hyperventilating as Sherlock nodded his approval as if encouraging him. John’s breath caught in his throat and then he was coming, hard enough to drop him to the floor as his leg turned to soup beneath him. 

“Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, Sher-“ John swallowed the name down, refusing to gasp it out after what he’d just _demanded_ of him, “There. See? You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock smirked, “You should have let me finish my sentence. I was going to say ‘don’t you dare touch yourself until _I order you to_. Then I ordered you to.”

Sherlock laughed as John stared up at him in horror. He felt a bit sick, but he felt even more aroused despite the fact that he’d already climaxed. He stood there staring at Sherlock in confusion while the man freed himself from his clothing and started to slowly stroke his long, elegant cock. 

“What would you like, John? You obviously don’t want to leave, so I’ll let you choose,” Sherlock teased, “Will you swallow me down? We’ve not done that yet. Or shall I stand over you and properly mark you as mine.”

John was hyperventilating. He had no idea how Sherlock managed to do that to him again and again, but every damn time the man challenged him John felt as if he were riding a ship in a tempest. His eyes would flash like lightening and turn dark as storm clouds and John would thrash about like an unfurled sail, completely at the mercy of this fierce and terrifying man’s east wind. Sherlock’s hand was moving faster, his cockhead swelling and flushing an angry red- as startling as the man himself. John had to make a choice before Sherlock made it for him, and moving was _not_ an option, not when the man both terrified and excited him to the point of shattering him like a boat on the rocks with a single glance. 

_Mouth or face._ __

_Submission or defiance._ __

_Is that defiance?_ __

_No. It’s not. There’s no upper hand here._ __

_Both are humiliation._ __

_I can leave, be passive, or take action._ __

_Can’t leave. Legs are still liquid._ __

_Can’t suck him off. He’ll win that way._ __

_But if I sit here until he comes all over my face I’m not exactly winning either, but at least I won’t have given_ in _to him._ __

John closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall of the hold and waited. Above him Sherlock let out a gasp as if surprised and then moaned in clear excitement.

“I’d hoped you’d give in but _this_ , oh this might be better.”

John pressed his lips tightly together, breathing harshly through his nose, and braced himself as he heard Sherlock’s breath stutter. Something- his hand?- slammed into the boards above him. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, and John barely resisted the urge to either open his eyes or answer out loud, “Oh gods, John! You’re _mine!”_ __

John’s mouth flew open, unsure if he was going to protest those words, agree with them, or just gasp in excitement. Hot, sticky fluid splattered across his face and into his mouth, bitter and salty, as Sherlock shouted out his pleasure. Silence. John’s eyes were covered in come but he was unwilling to move. He didn’t want to see the look on Sherlock’s face; he didn’t want to see him gloating over him.

“John.”

“That’s my name,” John grumbled, trying to decide what to do with that mouthful of spunk.

“Look at me, John. _Look at me_.”

John refused. It was an order. He wasn’t going to just _obey_.

Sherlock reached out, rubbing at John’s face with a bit of cloth viciously, “LOOK AT ME!”

John’s eyes flew open, the soul intention to _spit_ that vile stuff in the smarmy bastard’s face, but when he saw him he stopped and swallowed _hard_. Sherlock was wrecked, his face flushed and drenched in sweat, his arms shaking where they were braced against the wall above him, his breath coming in long, shaky pulls. His britches were still open, his slowly softening cock still dripping onto the floor between John’s ankles. His eyes were wild, the colour changing in the flickering light until John was certain he was staring into a pool of lamp oil. It was easily the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he wanted _more._

“Look at me,” Sherlock panted.

“I am. I’m looking. This is me… looking,” John breathed uncertainly.

“But do you _see_?”

“See… what?” John asked, baffled and a bit intrigued.

“What you do to me, what giving yourself to me _could_ do to me. You want to please me, don’t you?”

_Yes_. _Oh gods yes. Over and over and over again until we die from it._ __

“I don’t exist for _you_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked, “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Hurt me.” John demanded firmly… or meant to. It came out a bit of a pitiful whimper; also it was _definitely_ a question.

A slow smile spread across Sherlock’s face and his eyes glittered like stars. It was decidedly wicked and John’s mind flashed through a thousand situations that had him panting again.

“No.”

“No?” John whimpered… again. _Damn it!_

“You see how you’re panicking? How you can’t catch your breath when I’m near you? There’s a _reason_ , John. You haven’t given yourself into my trust. Until you do this will never work. Until you do you _can’t_ consent.”

With that Sherlock rocked back onto his heels, tied up his britches, and walked away, leaving John sitting on the floor of the hold beside a bag of grain with a lost feeling floating around in his gut.

And an erection.

[CHAPTER 7](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/167961.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 7

 

The sword flew out of John’s hand for the third time and a man narrowly avoided being struck by it. He continued on his way as if nothing had happened, not even dropping a note in his whistling. John shouted an apology anyway and got a hand wave in response. 

Sherlock was proficient in the smallsword, hanger/cutlass, and basket hilt sword. John was proficient in the flintlock, though it wasn’t from practice. He seemed to simply have a knack for it, and ever since he’d outshot everyone on the ship he’d become something of a legend even as people termed him a wanker.

“That bloody Cattle Prod,” They’d all grumbled.

“Why the hell does everyone call me that?” John had grumbled back. 

“Everyone on a ship has three names, your given, your title, and your nickname,” Sherlock explained with a smirk, “Once you get your nickname you’re part of the crew.”

“What’s yours?” John wanted to know.

“Freak,” Sherlock shrugged with a bemused smile.

“Charming. Are they _always_ insulting?”

“Usually.”

“Well the reasoning behind _yours_ is obvious, but what about mine? I don’t know a thing about cattle, I’ve never milked a cow or…”

Sherlock and the small crowd around them burst out laughing. John stared around himself in confusion while Sherlock shook his head in amusement. 

“It’s not because they think you were a farmer, John,” Sherlock chuckled, “It’s because of _me_.”

“What?”

Someone picked up John’s sword and handed it to him and he muttered a thanks before turning his attention back to Sherlock again.

“You, John, are the only person on this ship to move me even an inch without having to force me, my hand, or get my brother’s assistance.”

“So you’re the cattle and I’m the prod. Gods,” John rubbed his hands over his face in disgust.

“It’s also a reference to sex between two men,” A crewman piped up, glancing cautiously at Sherlock.

“Which is inaccurate since _I_ will be topping,” Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes.

“ _Gods_ ,” John reiterated, just in case they’d missed it the first time.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked with a challenging note in his voice.

“Yeah, what if I want to top?” John asked, making his own face back at him.

“You’ll have to come up with something else to desire,” Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively in the air, “I’ll give you many things, but not that.”

That caught John off guard and he halted his responsive argument mid-breath, “What sort of things?”

“Many. Name something you want and you’ll have it.”

John shifted miserably in place while several eyes watched him discreetly from the sidelines. He was certain this was a test and he had no idea how to pass it. He could ask for something small, something big, or nothing at all. He cast around in his mind but only two things came up: Mary or something he’d wanted since he was a child. Mary was out, he was certain of that. Sherlock had been clear about not dropping him off until he was ready to do so. Should he ask for her anyway? It would be an easy way to assert himself over their cascading relationship… or whatever this was.

John opened his mouth and out came a completely different response: “A pocket watch.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, blinking in surprise.

“A pocket watch,” John replied, blushing brilliantly, “My father had one but he gave it to my older brother and he lost it. I’ve always wanted one but could never afford one. I spent the money I _was_ saving to buy one on Mary’s engagement ring.” 

_Which she still has, I hope,_ John thought to himself, still envisioning that wedding someday.

Meanwhile Sherlock’s face had lit up as if he were being given a present himself. He clasped John’s arm and tugged him back to his cabin where he quickly spun the combination on his safe, pulled out a set of keys from within, slammed it shut and locked it, and then dragged John down to the depths of the ship. John’s head was spinning as Sherlock threw open the locked door in front of them and held in a lantern to reveal a room full of glittering treasure. Silver, gold, nuggets and galleons, gems enough to reflect back the light and fill the room with dancing will o’ wisps. Sherlock quickly strode into the room, hopping from beam to beam of the open floor, leaving John standing there in shock. He finally dragged his eyes from the now partially lit room as he noticed Sherlock bent over a chest where he was digging through piles of something glitterly. He returned with three pocket watches dangling from his hand.

“Pick one.”

John stared at them, stunned. A year of income would buy him one so fine! He swallowed down the mixture of shame and longing and reached out to turn each attentively, opening them and testing the fobs. One had a name on it so he discarded that instantly. Another was elaborate, gorgeous, delicate and clearly made for a very wealthy man; John was instantly attracted to it, but the design on the third drew his eye. The third was simple, made of pewter with a raised design of a sailing ship on the cover that had worn down over time. John snatched it from Sherlock’s fingers so quickly that the Admiral winced at the burn from the chain. He clutched it to his chest and stepped back, fully expecting Sherlock to take it away from him and demand some sort of payment he would be unwilling to give.

  


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“Well,” Sherlock stated, looking suddenly shy and uncertain, “You’ve certainly picked the practical one. It won’t rust and it’s sturdy. It keeps time well and… why that one?”

John stared down at it, suddenly intensely embarrassed. He knew his time with Sherlock was limited; that he would some day sail past Iceland, disembark, and turn to a life of marriage and patients. It was likely to happen within the next year if not sooner. He wanted something to remind him of Sherlock and his time on this ship, of a man who held all the excitement and life inside of him so powerfully that it came bursting out of him at the seams to spread to those around. Someone who made him feel _alive_ for the first time in his life, but whom he could never remain with. Mary was counting on him to rescue her from a life of forced bedding and breeding with a man she had never wanted to marry.

“I just wanted to remember that a ship took me to my true love,” John replied with a forced smile.

Sherlock was silent a moment, staring at him until John began to feel guilty for his lie.

“I’ve told you before that you’re a terrible liar. Do it again and I’ll punish you- and not in the fun way you’ll enjoy.”

He expected Sherlock to turn sharply and storm off, jacket flapping behind him, but instead he walked slowly forward, hand outstretched, and stroked along John’s jaw with just the tips of his fingers. John’s breath stuttered in his throat and longing welled up inside of him, but it was different from his usual lustful ache. He wanted something _else_ , but what it was he was longing for he didn’t know. He opened his mouth, took in a shaky breath, and then let it out in a frustrated sigh and shook his head. It would be just like Sherlock to throw him down and take him on a pile of treasure, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood. His eyes seemed like deep pools of thought rather than desire.

“What are you thinking right now?” John asked.

“You tell me.”

“I haven’t got your skills.”

“I only observe.”

“You don’t _just_ observe, you _absorb_. You make me look like a moron. You make the smartest people I know look slow. I want to…”

John stopped himself just in time. He’d been about to reveal the depth of his obsession with the man in front of him- a man he’d known for barely two weeks! Sherlock, however, was more than just observant and his eyes widened as he saw John’s unspoken words plastered on his face. John threw himself against Sherlock before the man could tackle him, trying to get the upper hand, and Sherlock staggered backwards, tripped over something on the ground, and they toppled to the ground with John stretched over him. Sherlock’s lungs emptied forcefully and John took advantage of it to snog him senseless until he pulled away to gasp in air. 

John worked his way down the man’s body, tugging clothes open as he went and littering kisses over his body. Sherlock moaned and writhed beneath him and John felt a surge of blood to his groin and a surge of power to his brain. He felt heady with excitement and the fact he’d managed to get control for a change. He wanted to see Sherlock undone the way he had in the hold two days ago. He pulled fabric away from his groin and buried his face inside, breathing in the scent of sweat and maleness that assailed his senses until he could _taste_ the man in the air in his mouth. Then he ran his tongue from the bottom of his shaft to the tip and Sherlock swore for a full minute straight as John eagerly lapped at him.

“More, damn it!” Sherlock shouted, tugging at his curls in frustration.

“I don’t _know_ what to do,” John snapped, “I’ve never done this before. You could _show me_ on…”

Sherlock grabbed his hair before John could suggest that he be the one sucked off, and pushed his head down into his lap. 

“You’ve got it damp enough, wrap your lips around it firmly- not tight, just firm- and move your head up and down. Yeeesssss,” Sherlock sighed, going lax beneath him.

John felt like a king. He had his mouth wrapped around the hard shaft, taking as much as he could inside himself, as he bobbed his head and flicked his tongue at the loose skin around the shaft. Sherlock had quite the long foreskin and John took full advantage, teasing it and moving his tongue as skillfully as he could. He had to go slow, which was clearly torture for Sherlock as he held himself back from thrusting up into John’s mouth. He was a wreck beneath John, gasping and clawing at the coins, his clothes, John’s hair, his own hair, and finally grasping John’s head and taking control.

John’s cock throbbed as he was pushed up and down on the man’s shaft, but Sherlock seemed to go on for ages. John’s jaw ached, the grasp on the sides of his head felt as if it would leave bruises, and he most definitely wasn’t enjoying it anymore. He moved his hands from either side of Sherlock’s body to his thighs, thinking there _had_ to be something he could do to excite him enough to make him come. 

_What would I like_? John wondered, and then recalled Sherlock clawing at his arse and ran his nails over the insides of his thighs. Sherlock gasped, removed one hand, and slapped him over his ear. 

John choked out a shout of pain at the partial boxing but Sherlock simply grasped him again, slowing down the pace but keeping him going. John groaned in frustration and Sherlock gasped beneath him. He tried it again and the man moaned softly. He set up a low growl in his throat, one he could carry out, and Sherlock promptly stuffed his cock down John’s throat. 

John pulled away, gagging and sputtering, and Sherlock snatched at him to draw him back.

“You’re gagging me!”

“I’m _close_.”

“That’s no excuse to…” John stopped arguing and dove down to Sherlock’s crotch. He’d gotten a look at Sherlock and the sight of his eyes wide with need and his mouth open and panting sent blood pounding into his cock again, “Just tell me what to do.”

“Your hands. Cup my bollocks, roll them… yes… like that…”

John settled into a rhythm, his head moving as he adjusted his grip around his cock with his lips to Sherlock’s direction. That deep voice flowed over him like honey, coating him with desire until he pulsed with heat. He palmed his erection through his trousers to ease up the pressure.

“Use your hand, too. Give it a lick and wrap it around the base. Either move it with your mouth or in the opposite direction. Mmmm, good.”

John bobbed his head and gave Sherlock’s cock his full attention while one hand stroked his shaft and the other rubbed his bollocks. He could tell he was getting better because Sherlock sounded less frustrated and more excited. His cock was starting to swell in his mouth so John focused on the head and braced himself for the splash on his tongue, swallowing it down without hesitation and giving him a few farewell suckles until Sherlock pushed him away.

John sat up on his knees and stared down at Sherlock, who was grinning like a fool while stretched across a mess of treasure. John grinned and tugged his trousers open, not bothering to pull them down. He knew he’d not take long as the sounds Sherlock had made while coming had given him quite the rush. 

“Still want me submissive?”

Sherlock blinked, “We’re going to have to teach you a bit about definitions. What do you think following my directions while sucking me off is?”

John paused in alarm, his cock jutting out in front of him and his hand hovering nearby.

“Now for round two, my dear John,” Sherlock smiled, reaching out a hand to caress his cheek. 

John reeled back, rolling to his feet and taking himself in hand, “If you think I’m stopping _now_ …”

“Oh no, don’t,” Sherlock insisted, his eyes greedy, “I want nothing more than to see your face convulsed in pleasure, my dear doctor.”

John’s hand on his shaft stalled, confusion rippling through him. Now what? If Sherlock _wanted_ him to come, should he? Or should he hold off? Or was _that_ what the damned Admiral wanted? John’s erection was flagging, his confusion making him flustered and frustrated. He was reaching for his britches, intending on doing them up and moving on with his day with a short temper to pay for his indiscretions, when Sherlock’s hands soothingly wrapped around his wrists. The touch was so light he could have broken it easily, but he found himself mesmerized. Sherlock tugged him down gently until he was kneeling before him, unsure of how to respond to the strange mixture of feelings cascading through his body. 

Sherlock kneeled up, wrapped one arm around John’s waist to press him close and gently stroked their lips together. It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it was full of promise and an unexpected tenderness. He sank into it, his sensitive member rubbing against rough fabric. He shivered in anticipation and allowed himself to be taken in hand and stroked back to full arousal once again. His body felt far more sensitive than ever before, shivers of sensation traveling from his cock outward as his blood hummed, his heart pounded, and his lungs fought for air. He broke the kiss to throw his head back and groan out his anxiety. 

“That’s it, my dear,” Sherlock soothed, lowering John down onto the cold, sharp ground. Various treasures pressed painfully to his side. John ignored them. His sole focus was Sherlock’s intense gaze, “Tell me what you want.”

John’s mind flailed. What did he want? That delicious combination of pain and pleasure? He balked. He’d taken the pain bravely enough when it had happened to him, and had enjoyed it rather intensely, but to know it was coming? To ask for it? John shivered. 

“Perhaps just my hand? Hm? My lips?”

“L-lips?” John stammered, his eyes focusing on those full bits of flesh and blood. 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispered, “I thought you’d never ask.”

John watched in awe as Sherlock slipped down John’s body, nuzzling here and there to make him twitch, before finding his once again aching erection. Sherlock’s lips wrapped around John’s cock and teased him a bit, wet and flexing over the head. John whimpered and writhed, his hand flying down to tangle in Sherlock’s curls. The pleasure was removed immediately and Sherlock quirked an eye at him.

“Wh-what am I doing wrong?!” John choked out. 

Sherlock twitched a finger from side to side, “Tut, tut. So demanding. You forget I _own_ you.”

“For now,” John pointed out, his voice breathy.

“For now, my dear,” Sherlock acknowledged. 

“For now,” John decided, and then let his hands fall to either side of his head in surrender.

“Ahhhh, yes. Good. So good,” Sherlock whispered, “Keep your hands there. Just like that. You’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock snatched up several thin gold chains and slipped them around his wrist, weaving them around him despite their fragility.

“These will break if you struggle. You don’t want to owe the king so many new necklaces, do you? No? Good. Then you’ll lie completely still. This isn’t practice this time, John. You _must_ be obedient. When I tell you to stay still you _will_ be _completely_ still. Won’t you, my dear?”

“Yes,” John replied, voice more sure. 

“Excellent,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes wide with lust and admiration for the strong man beneath him.

Sherlock started slow, stroking his hands up and down John’s sides, firmly enough not to tickle. When John’s breathing settled a bit and the edge of fear started to diminish he leaned forward and stole a soft kiss. The response was favorable; John sighed through his nose and relaxed further. His eyes slid closed when Sherlock caressed his eyebrows, taking the hint without verbal cue. He was completely limp, trusting Sherlock for the first time. It was glorious. Sherlock stroked down his face, neck, and chest, teased his fingers through the light dusting of hair at his navel, and slowly wrapped his fingers around the hard member he found below. John was lovely. Not long, per se, but shapely and straight as an arrow. His foreskin was smooth and unblemished, the head pearing from the depths of sensitive skin appeared curious. Well it should. No one had ever touched John like this. If he had his way, no one else ever would again. 

Sherlock leaned forward and ran his tongue in a circle around the lip of that sensitive skin, sliding it slowly down by increasingly widening the circles until the full ridge of his cock was exposed. John’s breath was fast, but steady. He wasn’t hyperventilating himself this time, merely enjoying the pleasure flowing through his body. Sherlock reached down and palmed his bollocks while continuing to circle his tongue. After a few strokes he squeezed them slowly increasing pressure until it was just on this side of painful. John whimpered, his eyebrows furrowing while Sherlock stared up at him with his tongue working the slit of his cock. 

“Just a bit more,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to the leaking head.

John bit his lip and took it for a full twenty seconds. Sherlock released the soft orbs, stroking gently beneath them along his taint to relax his muscles once again. John let out a sigh of relief and his hips shifted marginally. His hands had stayed put. 

“So good,” Sherlock whispered, “You’re doing a splendid job, John. When you come it’s going to be so much better for trusting me with your pain and pleasure.”

John nodded minutely and Sherlock smiled as he realized the man was already slipping into his headspace. Sherlock knew the feeling as he often experienced a floating sensation while punishing a crewmember, but until now the guilt after had far outweighed his enjoyment. Now he could bask in it, and he would. 

Sherlock continued to lap at his cock, teasing him to the brink of orgasm, before reaching for a small gold earing.

“I’m going to hurt you now, John. You’re going to love it, but you still must remain _completely still_. I wish you could see yourself; wrapped in gold and dripping sweat and desire. You’ve made me so happy. Now I’ll give you what we _both_ want.”

John shuddered, his body tensing and relaxing in turn. He wanted and feared all at once. Sherlock could give him a freedom he’d never even dared to dream at a cost he was afraid to pay. He could try, though. He could lie still when told to and reap the benefits of this mad man’s touch. For now. Not forever no, because he had a duty that could not be abandoned, but _for now_ he could bask in pleasure and pain until the stars that flashed behind his eyes burned through into his mind and drove him as insane as his captor turned lover. 

Sherlock was lapping at his nipple, teasing it with his teeth until it was firm beneath his fingers. Then he took a bit of rum on his fingertips and rubbed it around the hard nub. It was tempting to lick it off, but for what he needed sanitation was required. He lifted the gold hoop and studied the bit of flesh before him. He had every intention of making this absolutely perfect and he only had one try. Luckily he’d been preparing for this for days. He removed the leather-bound piercing kit he’d brought from his bag and poured a bit of rum from his flask over the needle and small tube as well.

“Don’t. Move,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yeah,” John breathed, his voice shuddering.

“Sharp pain. On your chest. _Don’t. Move.”_

“Sherlock,” John whimpered, holding his hips from flexing. The anticipation was quite possibly more stimulating than Sherlock’s tongue on his lips. He was throbbing with need.

“Hush, John. I need to concentrate. I don’t want to disfigure you.”

“Oh good. That’s… good.”

Sherlock slipped the needle into its sheath, took his nipple in a thin pair of pliers and lined up the sharp end. 

“Deep breath, and hold it until I say.”

John drew in a breath and Sherlock forced the needle through his flesh. He was so perfect. He didn’t shout. Just let out a shuddering breath after the pain stopped and Sherlock told him to let it out. Sherlock slid the needle out of the sheath and pressed the post to the needle in its place before working the sheath out while John drew in a slow breath. He made a choked sound at the end, but that was it. Sherlock clicked the post into place and licked up the trickling blood.

“So good. So tasty. I’ll make you feel so fantastic when this is through. One more.”

John nodded and this time was so calm and still through the second piercing that Sherlock cautiously checked his pulse. Calm. It wasn’t even elevated. He glanced down to see his cock was still half-hard. Sherlock licked up the second line of blood while he worked that member back to fullness. John shifted and moaned so Sherlock whispered for him to stay still and then leaned down to take him fully into his mouth. John moaned, his legs shifting while his upper half stay still. He suckled hard, working the cock beneath him without the aid of his hand. He took that thick cock into the back of his throat and swallowed over and again until his eyes watered and spots danced before them for want of air. He came up in time for John to come with a strangle scream. He caught a breath and then swallowed down the salty gift. 

Sherlock licked his lips as he sat up, smiling tenderly at the man beneath him. He stroked John’s eyelids and they fluttered open, recognizing the permission for what it was. His eyes were glazed, pupils dilated until the blue was midnight dark. John’s eyes flitted about, chasing whatever visions his pleasure brought him. Sherlock lay alongside him and flipped the rings up and down, listening to the soft gasps that his actions drew out. Finally he unbound his wrists, kissing each gently, before stroking along the man’s cheeks and tracing his lips.

“John,” Sherlock called softly.

“W-water,” John breathed.

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Sherlock pulled his waterskin from the pile of their clothes and poured a small amount into John’s mouth, letting him swallow it at his own pace.

“I’m okay,” John supplied.

“Of course you are,” Sherlock replied in amusement, “I only pierced your nipples.”

“Pierced my…?” John sat partway up and stared down at his chest in horror, “Oh BLOODY hell!”

XXX

John was sore from training and his nipples _hurt_. He was having a hell of a time keeping them clean, and Sherlock was having a hell of a time keeping his hands off of them until they healed. Which was why he was absolutely _relieved_ when _The Tilly_ hailed their ship and asked for John. He was taken over in the gig since the two boats were not able to maneuver for swinging while towing the _The Gloria_. He climbed aboard and headed to the sickbay of _The Tilly_ while asking what he was in for. The captain just gave him a cold stare in reply. 

Therefore John was shocked when he lifted the blanket on his groaning patient to find the ‘crewman’ was actually a ‘crewwoman’. The woman looked terrified at having been discovered, apparently only nude from the waist down to facilitate cleaning since she’d become incontinent. John was less than amused at the different physiology.

“What’s going on here?” John asked angrily, spinning on Cap’n Sal, “What have you done to this woman?”

“She’s a crewmember,” Sal stated calmly, “She’s under my protection. You’ll examine her with _me_ in the room, and you’ll tell no one she is female.”

John turned away in a huff and knelt by her bedside once more, “Has something happened?”

“I’m in so much pain,” She replied, pressing a hand to her abdomen, “It’s excruciating. I can’t keep food down.”

“Are you…” John hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to tactfully ask an unmarried woman if she could be pregnant without delivering a horrid insult.

“I’m careful,” She replied, “I use a turtle shell and drink this tea that… that the church would _not_ approve of.”

John nodded. He was aware of both methods, though he’d been taught by his father to discourage them. However since boarding these ships his mind had been expanded to include women as _people_ , rather than breeding machines. If she wanted to enjoy sex without having a child he would see what he could do to help her. If she was, as he suspected, in a family way, then there were methods he’d heard whisper of at school. 

John examined the young woman, pressing against her abdomen until he realized exactly what the problem was. 

“Well, you’ll be happy to know you aren’t with child,” John informed her, “However, you’ll need surgery right away. I’m not certain I can take care of you on this ship.”

“What is it?” Cap’n Sal asked harshly.

“Her appendix is hot,” John replied.

Both women looked _relieved_.

“Something I should know?” John asked, “This _is_ rather serious, you know.”

“Women who have… female difficulties…” The patient explained, “Can’t continue to serve. I’d end up one of the unfortunate women on the corners.”

John gaped at her, “What? Why?!”

The patient replied with a pained sneer, “Because women only have four jobs in this world: wife, mother, pirate, or whore. As choices go, this is the better one for some of us.”

“I wasn’t questioning _that_ ,” John replied, “I meant that the men are given retirement funds if they’re too injured to work. Why are you any different?”

“It’s not an injury if some bastard gets her up the duff,” Cap’n Sal replied harshly, “Whether she agreed to it or not.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “If someone has _forced_ themselves on you…”

“He didn’t,” The patient replied quickly, “It’s just… happened before. Not to me, but to other women here.”

Sal hissed, apparently not thrilled she’d let on there were other women on board.

“That’s not okay,” John replied, “Does Admiral Holmes know?”

Silence.

“Would he care?” Cap’n Sal asked.

“Yes,” John replied firmly.

“Then I suspect you’ll tell him,” Cap’n Sal replied, and John took it for the permission it was.

John returned to _The Toby_ to explain the situation to Sherlock, but his eyes roamed as he crossed the deck of _The Tilly_ and took in just how many crewmembers had willowy figures or very careful padding. These women were going untreated, a fact that occurred often even in the best of situations since being a woman usually meant your mother treated your female ailments or no one did, but here they were in the line of fire during battles _and_ receiving _sub par_ treatment. John couldn’t let it continue. 

A/N Here’s an alternate scene I considered and dismissed. It was good, but just not right for the mood. I might use it elsewhere, but there aren’t any spoilers so feel free to enjoy it. ;)

XXX

It was John’s screams that brought Lestrade down to the bowls of the ship where a door that should have been locked was decidedly _not_. There he came upon a site that both shocked and aroused him. Sherlock had strung John Watson up, using various lengths of fine chain to weave them into a strong, golden rope. Around his wrists were thick armlets, weaved into the mess of golden rope. He was writhing and screaming, his stockings over his eyes to blind him and the rest of his clothes no where to be seen. He was hard and leaking, his cockhead purple with tension, as Sherlock walked around him and struck him at random intervals with a thin silver necklace, the furthest bit of which was red with blood. 

“Say it again,” Sherlock demanded.

“Yours! I’m yours!” John shouted out.

Another strike, and John screamed and came, cock untouched as far as Greg could tell. The man pressed his hand over his mouth in a mixture of horror and excitement. He was hard beneath his codpiece, but he had no thought to deal with it then. Sherlock’s eyes had just met his and Greg had no death wish. He turned and fled. 

XXX

Sherlock kept his breath even as he watched John stand and strip off his clothes. He felt like the legendary Rumplestiltskin as he directed each movement of those deft fingers in weaving gold with cloth. 

[CHAPTER 8](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/169100.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Life on the Tobias Redbeard Ch 8

 

Blood and gore in this chapter. Not overly described, but it’s there. 

She wasn’t going to make it. John knew that and yet he couldn’t quite accept it. He had Cap’n Sal signal _The Toby_ demanding that they stop the fleet. The response he received was a blunt no. He took the boat over and confronted him, shouting at him angrily in front of all and sundry. Sherlock stood there and took it, waiting for him to calm down.

“Even if we do stop, I can’t keep the ship still enough for you to perform a surgery you aren’t properly trained for,” Sherlock replied softly, “We are also dealing with a situation in which stopping may mean losing an entire vessel. If your odds of success were higher I’d stop, and damn the treasure on _The Gloria_ , but your odds are painfully low.”

“You don’t _know_ that!” John shouted, “You can’t know that! It’s just… _numbers!_ You can’t put _numbers_ over human life!”

“This time I must,” Sherlock replied, his voice still low and soothing.

John wasn’t having it, “She’ll be dead by nightfall!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“The hell you are!” John shouted at him, and stormed off to the boat.

In retrospect John was surprised he hadn’t been punished or even warned. Their relationship had progressed to the point where John wasn’t searching for the underlying meaning to everything he said. He was still rebelling a bit, but he had also accepted the fact that the man’s strange form of romance was both addicting and very arousing to John. When he obeyed him he got a thrill and a reward, usually of a sexual nature but the man had also produced other rewards that made John feel like a kept man; he felt a combination of shame and shy pleasure when he was treated this way. 

Which was why he railed against him so strongly now. Sherlock without his biting words and firm hand confused John. He wanted the man to throw him over his leg, paddle him black and blue, and tell him to shut up about some dying woman on another ship. Instead what he saw was a Sherlock who knew it was pointless to care so he was simply waiting for John to figure that out as well; except John _couldn’t_ not care. It wasn’t in him. If he was the sort who just _stopped caring_ than he wouldn’t be on his way to save Mary, he wouldn’t be a doctor, and he wouldn’t be falling in love with a madman on a ship. As such, John stomped down into the sickbay of _The Tilly_ and started to prep for surgery. 

“Cap’n Sal,” John called, knowing the woman was somehow _always_ within earshot, “What would I have to do to get you to stop this ship despite the Admiral’s orders?”

“Hmmm,” She considered a moment, “Ask.”

“Just ask?” John replied in surprise. He’d gotten so used to Sherlock’s tactics it threw him for a loop.

“I won’ let Conchita die,” She stated firmly, “Not if der a chance of stopping it.”

John studied her a moment and then nodded, “Very well. Cap’n Sal, would you please stop this ship.”

“But of course,” Sal nodded, turning away and marching quickly out of sickbay.

“Am I dying?” Conchita asked, her voice thin.

John almost told her no, but then reminded himself of his father’s advice, “Yes, but I’m going to do my best to stop that from happening.”

“Thank you.”

XXX

Sherlock was standing on the deck of his ship staring off towards the sunset. He was worried about his sweet John. The dear thing was a mess of late, and had been neglecting Sherlock’s needs terribly. Still, he was _emotional_ , and Sherlock had no idea how to deal with that sort of _thing_. So he was consulting with his usual guide to all things _sentimental_ but Gregory was being obstinate. 

“Look, I’m just saying you’ve not treated other lovers with this level of leniency,” Greg replied, “You always walked all over them, chewed them up, and spat them out.”

“John enjoys pain,” Sherlock replied, “It makes it a good deal harder to break him.”

“Which kinda makes him perfect for you, you sick fuck,” Greg snorted, “So you better keep up the whole lovesick puppy routine so he sticks around.”

Sherlock laughed, “He’ll be leaving the second we pass Iceland again. He’s going after his fiancé.”

“I don’t know…” Greg ruminated.

“Well _I_ do,” Sherlock replied sharply, “John’s a man of morals, unlike you and I. Unlike most of the people we _know_ for that matter. He’ll do what is right by this _Mary_ person whether it’s what is right for him or not.”

“You sound like you think he’d be better off staying with you.”

“Not necessarily,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head, “But riding off into the sunset to rescue a woman from _marriage_? I like to consider myself a progressive thinker, but even I think that’s cracked. The woman can _leave_ if she jolly well wants to.”

Lestrade sighed as if much put upon, “Not all women can find their way onto forward thinking privateer ships like this one. Some end up on the streets selling their bodies or worse.”

“Than they must make the best of it or stay with their husbands.”

Lestrade sighed and looked as if he were about to launch into yet _another_ discussion on women deserving better, but at that moment the ship lurched sharply sideways. Sherlock took one look over his shoulder and swore in horror.

“Cut the ropes! Cut the ropes to _The Gloria!_ ” Sherlock shouted, jumping from the poop and charging forward to follow his own orders. 

Another crewman joined Sherlock’s efforts and they managed to cut all of the ropes before their ship was pulled sideways or started to crack from the strain of supporting a second ship with no reinforcement on the other side. _The Toby_ continued to move forward while _The Gloria_ slowed down and _The Tilly_ had turned sail to stop itself sharp. 

Sherlock swore. He stared at _The Gloria_ as it listed heavily to one side. A crewman from the emergency pumping group popped up top and Sherlock snatched up a flag to signal him to keep pumping. If they were unable to save the ship he’d send a boat over to collect them, but for now they might keep it afloat if they managed to keep water out of it. He considered a moment, and then shouted at three more men to head over to _The Gloria_ to help the pumpers double their efforts.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. It had taken the work of _three days_ to tie up that ship. It had required they maneuver gigs with harpoons rigged on them out into the water, fire a line of rope beneath the ship, while running nets along the other side to scoop up the arrow before it sank too far down to be useful. Then he’d had to drag the nets beneath _The Gloria_ , strap the damn thing to both the boats by running ropes under _The Tilly_ and _The Toby_ in the same way, and essentially create a cradle to tow _The Gloria_ back to port. All to save what was essentially a floating treasure chest, and knowing that if _anyone_ \- merchant or pirate- saw them on their way back that they would be assaulted for their gold, murdered for their silence, and left to a watery grave. So he’d double-timed it back to the nearest Mycroft-loyal port, hoping that reputation and witnesses would keep them from being attacked once they got there. 

Now they were worse than delayed, they would have to spend time re-strapping the boats together to haul the treasure-laden boat to shore. In fact, Sherlock was no longer certain that it was _worth_ it to save _The Gloria_. He was doing mental calculations and it seemed better to abandon it, but that would mean this entire journey’s profits would sink to the bottom of the sea as the King would demand his cut be met. 

“You’re not even _angry_!” Lestrade exclaimed beside him.

“Hm?” Sherlock asked, his mind still crunching numbers.

“At John. You know he’s behind this, that sick crewman is the only reason Sal would cut the ships. Yet you’re not mad.”

“He’s going to pay for this without me intervening,” Sherlock sighed, “That woman will not survive the surgery.”

“Sure. Cause that’s the way you’d normally feel in a situation like this. Cattle Prod has you wrapped around his little finger.”

Sherlock snorted.

“And by little finger,” Lestrade added, “I mean dick.”

“I knew what you meant,” Sherlock scoffed.

XXX

John sat in the sickbay staring at the mess of blood and flesh before him. Even with the ship basically steadied he hadn’t been able to save her. She lay cold and staring at the ceiling, her last moments torturously painful as she screamed through a surgery that was doomed to fail from the start. John saw that now, but he couldn’t accept it just as he hadn’t when Sherlock had warned him. He just sat there shaking his head miserably while the two people who had strapped and pinned her down for the surgery looked ill. Donovan leaned against the doorway, wearing no small amount of blood, and grimaced.

“We failed.”

John shook his head, “I failed.”

XXX

Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see an enraged John Watson board his ship, shaking with anger and still covered in the marks of his trade. He marched up to Sherlock and shoved him hard, pushing him backwards by several steps.

“We should have operated sooner! We could have _saved_ her! If you’d just _listened_ to me!”

“I couldn’t, in good conscience, do that John.”

“You _could_ have!” John shouted, shoving at him again. Sherlock let himself be pushed back a few more paces.

“Hey, Cattle Prod,” A crewman called, “Maybe ease up on the Admiral…”

“Shut up!” John shouted, “My name is _John Watson!_ Not _Cattle Prod_. I’m a bloody doctor, not a _tool!”_

John had rounded on the man, stalking towards him with violence in his eyes. The man backed down, fear in his every motion and expression as the man who managed to somehow control _Admiral Sherlock Holmes_ turned his rage towards him. Sherlock had no choice but to turn that tide before John lost the love of the crew. He moved quickly forward and spun John around to face him.

“You’re talking to _me_ , remember?” Sherlock snarled, and shoved John back. The man behind him fled to safer ground to watch the goings on.

“How could I forget when you’re doing everything you can to consume me!” John shouted back, shoving again. 

“How can I consume you when you’re only giving _part_ of yourself to me?” Sherlock shouted as well, snarling as he shoved John up against the mast he’d been carefully maneuvering him towards.

“No! Don’t!” The man shouted, his eyes turning frantic, “I can’t take it right now, I’ll go mad!”

“What exactly do you think I’m going to do to you?” Sherlock asked, voice having fallen soft.

“Don’t… do that. Please.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked again.

John took his lowered voice into account and dropped his own to a whisper, “Don’t… don’t _touch_ me in front of them. I can stand violence, but not that.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Okay,” He replied, and closed his eyes. 

Sherlock watched, baffled, as John’s head fell back against the mast and he simply stilled. A moment later he went completely limp and slid down until only Sherlock’s grasping hands were holding him up. Sherlock swore slightly and looked for a way to tie him up safely. There wasn’t a way from here. He waved his hand to Lestrade, who hurried over with a worried look on his face.

“What happened to him?”

“He’s gone into his head. Help me get him into our cabin where I can administer proper care to him.”

“ _Care_?” Lestrade asked. 

“No, I’m going to beat and rape him!” Sherlock shouted at him angrily, “Of course I’m going to take care of him! Now _help me get him moved!”_

“Sir,” Lestrade nodded, his tone oddly respectful. 

Sherlock quickly untied John and Lestrade caught him. They carefully maneuvered him into the captain’s cabin where Molly was working on their navigation coordinates.

“Out,” Lestrade ordered her without looking her way. She snatched up her bandana, shoved it on, and fled.

Sherlock laid John down in their bed, stroking his cheek gently. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Lestrade asked again.

“Never you mind,” Sherlock replied, managing to keep his anxiety out of his voice, “Fetch me water, food, and soap.”

Lestrade nodded and hurried off, not mentioning that this was grunt work. He knew when discretion was needed, and that only he and their firsts could be trusted. Sherlock stripped John of his stained clothing, stuffing them into a bag to be washed at a later date. Once Lestrade returned with water and soap he poured a bit of the water down his throat and then began to wash him gently. John stayed limp, his limbs pliable to Sherlock’s ministrations.

“What can I…?”

“Food. Now.”

“You think he can _eat_?” Lestrade asked, “He’s catatonic!”

“Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock arranged John into a comfortable position and sat down at the head of the tiny bed. When Lestrade arrived he motioned for the food to be handed to him and placed it in his own lap.

“John,” Sherlock stated with a heavy sigh, “John I’m _starved_. I haven’t eaten in near two days. Feed me, John.”

John stirred a bit, but then went limp again. Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh.

“I’ll only eat from your fingers, John. Otherwise I shall faint.”

John sat up slowly, blinking blearily with eyes that were unfocused until they met Sherlock’s eyes. Then the pupils dilated and he leaned forward to press against his side. He picked up a bit of smoked mutton, pulled Sherlock’s head to rest on his shoulder, and teased his lips with it until Sherlock opened his mouth and accepted the bite. Sherlock sucked on John’s fingers as he was fed each bite until the plate was cleaned.

John still didn’t speak. Sherlock took a length of rope and fastened it around his neck like a collar.

“Come on my cattle prod,” Sherlock teased lightly, “It’s time I led _you_ around for a bit. On hands and knees. Crawl for me.”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade spoke in a worried tone.

“Mind your own,” Sherlock scolded lightly, “Come along John.”

“Sherlock, he’s _naked_.”

“Yes, the crew _might_ get a bit jealous,” Sherlock frowned as John slid off the bed and onto the floor. He shifted about, frowning as he tried to figure out how best to crawl about without tugging on his impromptu leash, “I suppose I _could_ dress him, but that takes away from _me_ enjoying it.”

“Look, I know half the crew are buggering each other, but it’s a sort of what happens on the ship stays on the ship thing.”

“Yes. Good. Move.”

“Sherlock, they don’t _flaunt_ it! If you do this you’ll get reported! You’ll be hanged!”

“Oh no,” Sherlock smirked at him, “Not _hanged_. Hung, yes.”

Sherlock walked slowly out the door with John inching his way along behind him. They headed to the mess where John usually ate with the crew and the entire hall fell into a hush as Sherlock walked in. Lestrade stayed out, well aware that the mess was where officers _never_ went. It was where the crew could let go to relax. Sherlock was _violating_ all of that and humiliating John to boot!

Sherlock tugged John in after him and watched as all the jaws in the room collectively dropped. Sherlock took the nearest seat, ignoring the way the men inched away from him in horror. He waved to the cook who hurried to load up a tray and bring it to him. He was giggling a bit when he did, his pupils blown with obvious lust, but Sherlock ignored it. Instead he waited until John situated himself sitting down on the floor at his feet. The man considered the situation and then laid his head down, resting his temple on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock cut the food small, frowning at the shoddy pewter utensils, and pressed each bite to John’s mouth one at a time. The man leaned against him, soothed by his touch and sighing softly as he took in each bite. He kept his mouth and chin clean so Sherlock allowed him a bit of nuzzling. He could feel the moment the poor thing started to find the process arousing rather than simply soothing. John instantly became discomfited. Where he’d accepted his nudity as fate when ordered by his Admiral, he apparently drew the line at exhibitionism. Sherlock decided to take pity on him and sent a crewman to his cabin for a shirt that he slipped the rope through first before sliding each of John’s arms into it before popping it over his head.

John smiled up at him, the picture of adoration and peace. His eyes were still a bit glazed, the pupils wide with longing. Sherlock pressed a cup to his lips and held his hand beneath his chin to help him drink. John drained the cup and still he stared up at Sherlock with reverence.

“You tried so hard, didn’t you?” Sherlock soothed gently, wiping his mouth with a flannel, “You did everything in your power. Defied me. Manipulated one of my officers. Powered through and stared the gods in the face, daring them to check you.”

“She was _my_ age, Sherlock,” John said softly, “She was _young._ She’d never even been in love.”

“Ah, call me ‘My Lord’ when you’re in this state. Try it out then. ‘Yes, My Lord.’”

“Yes, My Lord,” John sighed happily, laying his head on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock was aware of the crew watching, those close enough to listen were so focused some had food halfway to their mouths. He didn’t care. John was on the edge of falling apart. This was obviously his first patient death due to his own actions rather than the patients circumstances- not a surprise for such a young man. He was fragile right now and needed Sherlock to be strong for him. John had put himself under this time, so now Sherlock was going to pull him back up and give him what he needed.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock soothed, “You thought you could help her. You thought you had enough _power,_ but my darling sometimes there just _isn’t_ enough power. You can chase after it your entire life like my pompous brother, you can accept the power you have or don’t have like I do, or you can _serve_ and be _given_ power. Like you are with me.”

“You give me power… um… My Lord?” John asked, his tone lost somewhere between hopeful and unconvinced.

“Of course. I give the crew power, too if you consider that money is power. As for you, you have the power to tell me no, and the assurance that I will listen if you do. I will reward you, pleasure you, and punish you whenever you need me to. You can ask me for anything and I will strive to give it to you. Today you have my forgiveness. Tonight you will have my affection. Tomorrow you will return to your usual self and put this behind you.”

“I will?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“You’ll make it all stop… spinning about in my head?”

“That’s what you do for me, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

A fork clattered down and Sherlock ignored the man gaping at him across the table. Instead he stood and gently tugged his obedient lover out the door and back to their cabin where he laid him out on their bed. John was gorgeous so he set about decorating him. He fetched a fitted leather glove and slid it over his hand before bringing it down on John’s bare bottom where he knelt on the floor. John moaned appreciatively and Sherlock smiled. He slipped the shirt up further and sat on the edge of the bed, motioning his lover into their bed where he tossed him over his thighs to spank him soundly- three strikes to one cheek, three to the other. He doubted John was aware of the sounds he was making, moaning heatedly as Sherlock let him rut against his thigh. John was so close that he twice had to stop paddling him and tug his bollocks back down, fondling the swollen orbs as John keened and begged for release. 

Sherlock quickly realized that John was going to need a touch more pain than pleasure. He could start wailing on each cheek for longer periods or he could use something a bit harsher than his already tired hand. He budged John over, chased his hand from his cock, and headed across the room to his sea chest. He looked through, discarding the flogger and whip, and then slammed his chest shut in frustration. He had _nothing_ he needed! He had no oil to fuck him properly and nothing to properly administer pain. His prat of a brother had warned him off torturing prisoners so he had discarded those tools ages ago to make room for necessities. Angry about the situation, Sherlock ordered John to kneel on the floor with his hands on his head and stormed down to the tool chest in the hold. He searched it for a while and came up with a flat metal tool that was probably for spreading something or other. He made a cursory attempt at cleaning it and then headed back to his cabin and froze in shock.

John was still rock hard on his knees on the cabin with his hands on his head. His muscles were twitching a bit and his legs were spread for stability on the rolling ship. His cock had dripped a small puddle on the floor in front of him as he whimpered softly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Sherlock stepped softly into the room and heaved himself into Lestrade and Molly’s hammock to watch him pant and shift anxiously. Sherlock was out of his depth and he knew it. He was aware of how people reacted under physical pain, but psychological distress was something he’d only ever observed from a distance. Now John was hurting emotionally and Sherlock was struggling to find a way to bring him back out of it. It seemed anticipation was particularly erotic to him.

Sherlock stood and walked up to his lover, carefully stepping over his ankles to walk around him. His arse was red and smarting, the muscles in his jaw working as he breathed through his discomfort and arousal. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as Sherlock ran his hand through the young man’s hair. 

“You’re gorgeous like this. Such a good boy.”

John panted a bit before getting himself out of control, his cock twitching eagerly.”

“So hard for me.”

“Sherl… My Lord…”

“Hm?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please let me… I need to…”

“To what?” Sherlock asked teasingly.

“Hurt me,” John panted, “I need to _ache_.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Sherlock promised, “On your feet. You will stand with your legs apart and you will _not_ fall or ejaculate.”

John whimpered and Sherlock circled him a moment longer before bringing the heavy object down sharply on his arse. He shouted in pain and surprise and Sherlock felt his own cock throb in his trousers. He wondered where else he could strike. He’d have to avoid organs, of course, and he had to be careful not to cut into him if only to avoid infection. He walked around with a more critical eye now, stripping him of his shirt and looking for strike points rather than enjoying his trembling form. He mapped him out and made for a flat strike on his shoulder blade. John yelped. Not as stingy there, then. He circled him again and swiftly dropped down to smack between his thighs just shy of his tight bollocks. 

John howled, his body twitching and his cry a bit frightened. He still hadn’t opened his eyes and seemed to be savouring the lack of visual stimuli. Sherlock’s own body was throbbing with adrenaline at the sounds John made as strike after strike flew down on him, bruises blossoming across both sun kissed flesh and the pale of those sheltered by his clothes. John was aching for release and a soft noise of longing caught Sherlock’s ears. It came from himself. He was whimpering almost constantly and had been completely unaware of it. That wouldn’t do. It allowed John to track his location in a way his catlike steps did not. Sherlock snatched up a stocking and stuffed it into his mouth, ignoring the acrid taste as he bit down on the material to focus himself. A strike to the underside of his arm, right where it was softest. Another to his arse. Several in a row delivered carefully to his back, mustn’t break a rib or vertebrae. Then he brought the substitute paddle down on his chest, right over a pierced nipple and John let out a strangled sound.

“Fuck! Don’t! I’ll come!”

Sherlock stilled. He hadn’t actually meant to hit him there yet but he’d gotten carried away. John’s nipple piercings were still healing. However… the sight of John’s cock throbbing on the edge of orgasm was so very tempting. He struck the other and John all but sobbed.

“Let me! Please! Let me!”

“Yes,” Sherlock panted, spitting out the cloth and brushing sweat-soaked curls from his eyes, “Yes, come for me John.”

Sherlock brought it down on his inner thigh again and John’s body let loose, his cock bouncing as ribbons of semen spurted out onto the floor and Sherlock’s arm. 

“Oh, gods,” Sherlock breathed, his body trembling with the rush of having brought John off untouched. He sank to his knees and pulled John against him. The trembling man collapsed against him and Sherlock thrust up against his sweat-slick hip. It didn’t take long. Just a few quick thrusts and he was emptying himself between them, “John, John, John, my John, precious as gold, John.”

“Lord Sherlock. _My_ Lord,” John whispered, turning his head with eyes still closed to pepper his face with kisses.

Their lips found each other and their tongues lazily stroked each other, savouring the other’s slick muscles. John was so pliant that it was bliss to press him into the bed. Sherlock felt as if he’d taken a hit of opium, his head was floating and his skin buzzing as he stroked a damp cloth across John’s sweat and come soaked body. John slipped into sleep while Sherlock cared for him. He climbed over him and stretched across his body to sleep, the blankets tugged up enough to be modest. He should have gone and told Lestrade it was safe to return to the cabin, but he was so tired and emotionally ravaged that he couldn’t be arsed.  

“Sleep, my dear,” Sherlock soothed as he slipped into sleep, “You will have a painful day tomorrow, and not only due to my heavy hand.”

XXX

John was floating. From the moment Sherlock pressed him to a hard surface and promised to abide by his limitations he’d simply let go. He let himself hurt, feel guilty, feel _everything_. He let himself be led about, teased, taken care of. He remained still while Sherlock brought his hand down over John’s bottom until it throbbed and his skin felt as if it were on fire. He let himself be struck by god-knows-what blunt object until he could _feel_ the vessels beneath his flesh bursting forth to colour his skin with evidence of Sherlock’s attention. His orgasm was overwhelming, bringing him to his knees. It must have been just as stimulating to Sherlock as he quickly joined him and John moaned at the feel of his pleasure dripping down his body. He was complete. Calm. Mind blissfully blank and at peace.

XXX

John woke the next morning to an empty cabin and an eerie silence. He was stiff and movement proved painful, but he managed to pull himself up to his feet. He stared around the cabin and saw signs of activity that he must have slept through. The ship was oddly still. He looked over his assortment of bright black and purple marks as he dressed before hurrying out to the rest of the ship. The deck was oddly silent as well. He saw people hurriedly working, their heads down, and the few that looked his way had carefully blank expressions. The night before was replaying in John’s head over and again, especially as he watched the men re-lash the three ships together. 

“It’s a still day,” Sherlock said softly at his elbow, making him jump, “Perfect for re-lashing the ships.”

“I should apologize…”

“Your punishment has yet to come, so I think apologies are moot at this point, don’t you agree?” 

John swallowed, “You said you’d forgiven…”

“Because you had already agreed to your punishment, so there was no point in being upset at you.”

John thought about that for a moment, but couldn’t fathom what Sherlock meant so he finally asked. Sherlock gave him a sad smile; the sort that he reserved for when John was going to seriously regret what was about to happen. Then he walked away, picking up flags and signaling _The Tilly_. John was still learning how to read the signals, but he was sure it was boarding permission. 

“I suggest you not eat,” Sherlock advised, passing him on his way back to their cabin.

John anxiously watched the boats launch, noting the dark figure of Cap’n Sal in the stern. His stomach twisted and he realized _not_ eating was likely a good idea, because he’d just remembered a promise he’d made to Sherlock some time ago. He’d not had to make good on it yet, but today…

Sal boarded, her eyes hard and her face resigned. She climbed to the poop and stood quietly. Her usual bangles were missing, her clothing a simple shirt and trousers. Something looked off and it took a moment for John to realize that her shirt was on _backwards_ and her breasts were loose instead of bound by either cloth or corset as he’d usually seen. She looked so vulnerable. 

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

“No, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock followed John up the ladder and stood by his side as he read off Sal’s crimes. He hadn’t gathered people as he had before, they were all too busy trying to salvage _The Gloria_ , but they glanced up as they passed to and fro. 

“Disobeying a direct order, damaging two ships and putting a third in danger, endangering countless crewmembers, delaying a voyage and putting three ships in danger of piracy-“

“Isn’t that a bit much?” John hissed.

“Let’s just hope no one comes across us while we’re helpless,” Sherlock pointed out and then continued reading, “Attempts resembling mutiny, to be judged and punished by John H. Watson, Cabin Boy, Doctor, Solicitor In Standing.”

Sherlock stepped back, handing the roll of parchment he’d been reading from to his First, and stared pointedly at John who stood there feeling horrid. 

“Well… well, it _wasn’t_ mutiny,” John stammered.

“Mutiny will be struck off the record,” Sherlock stated sharply, and his first picked up a quill and made a note on Donovan’s record. 

“She did disobey an order,” John almost added ‘at my request’, but he knew it wasn’t relevant, “How much damage was done?”

Sherlock nodded to the first mate and he read off a list that included a broken pump due to overuse and some superficial damage to _The Toby_. John winced. 

“Okay so… so damaging two ships. Yeah,” John agreed and Trevor made another few notes, “Endangering the ships and crew… yeah, especially those on _The Gloria_.”

John sighed. Now he had to think up a punishment. Sherlock had both the whip and flogger out along with a length of rope. The rope wasn’t for binding her during the punishment. When spelled out her ‘crimes’ really were rather alarming, but John kept thinking of the look on her face when she saw her crewwoman dead. 

“Jot in… Make a note… leniency due to protection of crew.”

“How _much_ leniency?” Sherlock asked, his voice sharp.

“Less five strikes.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement and Trevor wrote something down. John wondered if he were really writing or if all this was another farce, an attempt to see if John would obey. He would. There was no longer a doubt in his mind that Sherlock Holmes was his Lord and Master. The man had singlehandedly brought him from the brink of some horrid mental attack. How often had his father warned him to care _for_ patients, and not _about_ them? How often had he seen death back home and here? He’d had patients die on him during their last battle, he’d _killed_ a man, but none had struck him as so personal. Most of them had been pirates. They hadn’t seemed as important, hadn’t seemed like _people_ at all. How callous and naïve he’d been. 

“Then your verdict is guilty on all counts except mutiny,” Sherlock noted, “What is her punishment?”

“Five strikes per crime less five for leniency,” John decided. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “In front of the crew,” Sherlock raised the other eyebrow, “In private,” Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, “Give me a hint?”

“With _what_?”

“Oh. Whip.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock nodded, and then surprised John by coming up to him and leaning in to whisper, “You know Sal doesn’t think of herself as a woman, correct?”

“Yeah, some sort of cross or something.”

“Yes, exactly. Even during punishment that must be respected or you will _break_ her. This is the point I might have mucked up, but being outside of it I can see what is best. You see she wore her shirt backwards and no bindings?”

“Yes.” 

“That’s so you don’t have to strip her bare. Since she’s captain she gets her punishment in private, but she doesn’t even want _us_ to see her tits. So. Keep her semi-clothed.”

John nodded his understanding and Sherlock ordered a blanket be stretched up to afford them privacy. His First and Donovan’s Cabin Boy held it up on either side with their backs to John and Donovan. Sherlock gave John a firm nod and he stepped away as well. John stared at Donovan and his mind flew. He wasn’t experienced in this sort of thing. He could hurt her badly. Or he could slap down on the deck and no one would be the wiser- except Sherlock who would know as he knew everything that went on in his ship and he would lose the Admiral’s respect. Or he could do as ordered. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“I don’ want or need yer pity,” Sal stated firmly, hir voice cold.

“It’s not pity it’s… an admission of my own responsibility in your punishment. Our punishment.”

“How exac’ly is _dis_ punishing _you_? I understand yer only ‘punishment’ for killing my crewwoman and convincing me to disobey my Admiral was _sex_.”

John didn’t reply. There was nothing he could say to that, though his face did burn with shame and humiliation at her words. He took a few practice swings, slapping the thing down on the deck.

“Those better have been practice,” Sherlock warned.

“Yeah, they were,” John sighed, and stepped up behind Cap’n Sal. 

GORE WARNING XXX skip to the next relevant scene by searching END GORE

John unbuttoned her top, muttering to her to hold it up in the front. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep it in place and dropped to her knees. The first strike was pathetic and he heard Sherlock snort. He counted it anyway. The second missed and Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“Yeah okay,” John snapped irritably, “Working on it.”

He got in a proper second strike and winced miserably as a brilliant red mark appeared. How did Sherlock do this and enjoy it? John was fascinated by pain, even on someone else, but to actually harm someone? He felt sick. The third strike brought up blood. The fourth saw her start to shake with the strain of keeping silent as blood trickled down her back. The fifth was wide and opened up a gash on her side that had John moving forward to check for severe damage.

“Keep going!” Sherlock ordered.

“She’s hurt!”

“Of _course_ she’s hurt, that’s the point! Now! Or I come around there and do it myself!”

John swore and stood again, bringing the last five strikes down in quick succession. That was worse, apparently, and tore a scream from her on the ninth lash. John didn’t dare to take a moment to let her recover. If Sherlock took over he would be angry and would do _serious_ damage. He took the last five lashes at a slower pace, though it didn’t stop her moaning in agony. She was sobbing by the eighteenth and wailing by the twentieth. Her back was a mess of blood, ribbons of torn flesh hanging loose. She would take a month to fully recover assuming no infection set in. She would need stitches and obscene amounts of bandages. John doubted she’d be given that time to heal being a captain. 

END GORE

John threw the whip down, realizing just then that the person sobbing _hadn’t_ been Sal Donovan. It had been him. Had she even made a sound? Had he been the one to scream and groan as if in pain? He wasn’t sure. He dropped to his knees on the ground beside her. Her face _was_ wet with tears, but her bloodied lip stood testament to her resolve. John on the other hand was sobbing so hard he could barely steady his hands as he gently prodded her sides around the injuries to make sure hir organs had not been damaged by his beating. He would need to observe her for the next few hours.

“John,” Sherlock said softly at his side, “She needs treatment. Take her to sickbay.”

“Yeah. Course. Can you walk?”

She nodded, her expression stealy, and John helped her down the ladders and into the depths of the ship. He could barely steady himself as he washed his hands, but once he was standing over her with a damp cloth and his sleaves rolled up an instant calm descended on him. He sniffled back his waterworks and knelt beside the bed she was face down on to clean her wounds. This time when she groaned in pain he didn’t ache with her. He was detached. Professional. A doctor. Sherlock stood in the doorway and observed, but when John spouted off his intent to observe her for a few hours he nodded and left without a word. Anderson, her First and presumably her lover, wandered in and made himself small in a corner. He looked very pale.

Donovan’s hand grasped his as he began to move away to fetch bandages. He frowned at the fact he’d have to wash up again.

“Listen,” She stated, her tone sharp, “I forgive you.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” She released his hand and he returned to his work. 

“You ever going to tell me how you ended up here?” He asked, his tone light and teasing.

“Well…” She sounded hesitant, “I s’pose you earned some o’ my respect. I can tell you now.”

John stilled. He hadn’t expected to hear the truth just yet. Ze began hir story as he knelt down to stitch up the worst of the lashes. 

“When I was a little girl,” Ze started, “I came ‘cross a strange mushroom. When I ate of it my body changed into a boy’s.”

John sighed but didn’t interrupt her.

“I spent many years as a man, growing into adulthood and taking a wife. We had no chil’ren and she was unhappy. One day I wandered out into the forest and found dat mushroom again. I took it to my wife, hoping she would be happier if she were the man and could impregnate _me_. We both ate of it and I found myself a woman and she a man. However, our urges had not changed and our village cast us out for committing the abomination of sodomy.”

“Oh!” John replied in alarm.

“We fled from da death sentence by canoe and were picked up by Lestrade’s vessel. He understood dat I didn’t want to be seen as a woman and that my husband preferred to be the wife. He gave us peace, but we had to hide who we were from da crew. Then Da Freak took over the ships. We were allowed to be ourselves for da first time in our lives and we never been happier.”

“What about babies?” John asked.

“With all of you toddlers ‘round? Who needs ‘em?”

John laughed and Cap’n Sal smiled softly up at him from her place on the cot. Her expression was fond and the feeling was mutual. They’d both lost someone, and both paid for it despite feeling they’d done the right thing, but they were wiser for it.  
  


[CHAPTER 9](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/172473.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 9

 

It was two days after they’d gotten the ships re-lashed. John was still swaying from the turn in his relationship with Sherlock. His nickname changed from ‘The Freak’ to ‘My Lord’ and John was aching for him on a regular basis. They spent far too much time touching, even in front of the crew. John would walk up to him to discuss something and end up with an arm around his waist, pressed against that lithe body as they spoke within inches of each other’s faces. Sometimes Sherlock would steal a heated kiss and John would just melt against him for a moment before pushing away and hurrying off, face red and eyes averted from the crew. The crew themselves seemed to think they were both humorous and amusing. Only a few found their actions repulsive, and those few just muttered and looked away. 

Then John headed topside for a breath of fresh air after having spent the entire morning treating a crewman who had swallowed a nail on a dare- he’d live, but he was lucky- and found Sherlock looking through his scope with an anxious look plastered to his face.

“My Lord?”

“We’re being tracked. They’re trying to decide if they should attack or not. Only our reputation has kept us from all being murdered where we float.”

“Oh gods,” John breathed, looking across the horizon at the ominous figure of another ship, “Who are they?”

“A merchant vessel from the looks, but that could be a cover. Many merchant vessels get commandeered by pirates who use their innocuous flags to sneak up and rob other ships.”

John shifted about uncomfortably, staring miserably out at the suddenly forbidding ocean. It was his fault they’d been delayed by several days.

“If only we could convince them that we’re tied together for a _reason_ rather than that one of us is crippled,” John mused, then looked up at Sherlock in surprise as his face went from concerned to bright and excited. 

Sherlock grabbed John against him and pressed a bruising kiss to his lips, spouting out orders almost the instant that his lips left John’s. Before John knew what was happening Lestrade was on the quarter deck with an accordion, soon joined by Sal with a set of large drums (was that skin they were made of?) and the men were ordered to arm up. Sherlock threw a rope between _The Gloria_ and _The Toby_ and both ends were tied.

“Today!” Sherlock shouted, “We’re going to practice walking on water.”

The men all laughed, but John’s eyes were on the ship far in the distance. If Sherlock could see their faces well enough to deduce what their intentions were than they could do the same, though likely not to the degree that the Admiral was capable. Then Sherlock did something so shocking that even John forgot their worries for a moment. He stepped up to the edge and _walked from one ship to the other on a single rope_. John glanced around him and realized that this was new to everyone judging by the amount of jaws on the deck. He turned and walked back, wobbling a bit when a particularly big swell hit the boats, and then dropped down with a laugh.

“All right!” Sherlock shouted, “Who’s up first?”

The men all hurried forward, eager for a bit of fun, and Sherlock had boats launched out the back to gather up those who fell. Before long there were sailors being dragged out of the water regularly only to quickly scale the side of the boat again. Lestrade and Donovan had a roudy tune going on, so those who weren’t trying the rope trick or working the rigging were dancing. Those who made it all the way to _The Tilly_ \- some gave in and swam or rowed there- were practicing their swordsmanship with their swords turned blunt-side out. 

John’s eyes kept straying to the ship in the distance and eventually it began to get smaller and smaller before disappearing completely. Sherlock appeared at his side with a proud grin on his face.

“How did… what just happened?” John asked him.

Sherlock bussed his cheek before replying, “You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!”

“Cheers… what?”

“Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.”

“In the King’s English, please?” John sighed.

“Please, whom?”

“Please, my Lord,” John smirked a bit, his cheeks still colouring whenever he used that name. 

“You mentioned getting them to think that we were tied together for a reason. It was a good concept, so I thought of a reason; therefore drills and training, with a bit of music to make it look as if we’re having fun at it. They got bored and left. “

John shook his head in amusement, “You really are brilliant, my Lord.”

John leaned in for a kiss and found himself drawn in tight. They drifted for a moment, forgetting the world around them while embracing tightly. When Sherlock drew back his eyes looked tired rather than aroused.

“You okay?”

“Tight rope walking is more tiresome than it looks,” He replied, “I walked them fourteen times. I’m exhausted and in need of a massage.”

“Oh, well,” John grinned, “Luckily your cabin boy is also a doctor.”

“Oh, so you’re prescribing me a foot rub?”

“And a back rub. And an arse rub. And a dick rub.”

Sherlock and John snickered and Sherlock pulled his lover towards the bedroom. When they threw open the door they found Molly and Greg snoozing in their hammock already. Sherlock headed for the bed while John hesitated anxiously. Sherlock was already naked by the time John swallowed his worry down and joined him. As massages went, it wasn’t sexy at all. Sherlock’s feet were legitimately rubbed raw in several places so John ended up cleaning them up before massaging his legs. By the time he got anyplace interesting Sherlock was snoring away. John, however, was hard as a rock, but he hadn’t been given permission to come. He crawled up Sherlock’s body and draped himself over his bony lover. He rutted a bit against him, but it was only making him want release more. Finally he settled in for a night of restless sleep. 

When John woke up the ship was lurching more than normal. He headed topside and made it just in time to hear the most wonderful sound ever to cross his ears.

“LAND HO!”

John joined in with the crew, whooping and hollering, he even did an impromptu jig across the deck. Sherlock laughed when he saw him, jumping from the poop to the main deck and pulling John into himself. They were suddenly folk dancing across the deck, laughing as they spun. John had never danced the feminine role, but he found it to be just as fun. Finally they were all distracted by running the sails, adjusting the rigging, and cranking the anchor. Then the plank was lowered and the sailors all waited while Sherlock handled the docking fees and other paperwork. Finally he returned to the ship and told them all to disembark for one hour only. The men swarmed off the ship, some jumping the sides and using ropes to make it to deck rather than walking down. They were wild and all headed straight for the line of pubs on the wharf. 

John waited behind with the Admiral and the First, but the second the crew had disembarked Sherlock was busy making orders for repairs and Lestrade was a part of that since it was his ship. Cap’n Sal boarded the ship, listened in to the repair orders for a while, made a rude comment, and then grabbed both John and her own first by an arm to drag them off.

“Wait… what…”

“Shut up and unclench yer arse for an hour,” She replied, “I promise I not stick anyting in it.”

Anderson snickered, leaning forward to throw him a lewd wink, “That’s my position anyway.”

John had a shock when he got down to the walk. The ground lurched beneath his feet and he staggered to one side. Sal caught him and pulled him away from toppling off the edge. 

“What the hell is…?”

“Sea legs,” They snickered as one. 

“You’ll get used ta it,” Sal told him with a smirk, “Brace your legs far apart and don tink about staying straight. Sailors walk drunk when dey sober and normal when dey drunk.”

Anderson laughed and John joined in as they weaved their way to the shops like a trio of drunken chums. They got some looks due to Sal, but overall they ignored them. Anyone stupid enough to challenge three armed sailors were either ignorant or had a _lot_ of backup, the latter of which would be easily avoided. As they headed for the larger part of the market John glanced at his reflection in a shop window and stopped dead in shock. Sal halted and Anderson scowled over his shoulder. 

John was transformed. Gone was the pale, well-dressed gentleman who had left England weeks ago. From head to toe he was a changed man; he wore rough-sewn clothes from Sherlock, a bandana to protect his head from burning through his sun-bleached hair during the noonday sun, that same devil had darkened his skin, his hands and feet were rough from ship work and swordplay, his fashionable shoes had been abused beyond recognition, but the most damning were the sword, pistol, knife, and skull engraved water flask strapped to his hip. 

“I look like a pirate,” John breathed.

“You look like a _privateer_ ,” Anderson corrected with a sneer, “We _hunt_ pirates. Under the King’s seal.”

“Not today,” Sal admonished, “Today we shop. Come Cattle Prod, we have a long shopping list from his Lordship.”

John let himself be dragged away from his barely recognizable reflection and faced the shopkeepers suspicious glares. They were far crueler to Sal of course, so Anderson was forced to do most of the talking since John didn’t know whatever language they spoke. John didn’t even know where he was but they sounded Germanic; it didn’t matter anyway because he was already missing the ship, a ship that he obviously belonged on now. John watched Sal fill up a basket with a wooden mallet, bottles of oil, salves, whatever medicines John asked for, and finally draped a length of cloth over John and Anderson’s shoulders. It was thinner than sail cloth so John assumed it was for making clothes or other odds and ends. She also made dozens of orders which would soon be filling up their dwindling stores with fresh thickly-skinned fruits, root vegetables, dried herbs, hardy vegetables, smoked meats, and carefully packaged grains. Water they would get by the barrel full from the mouth of the nearby river. Sherlock also needed sheets of metal and scraps of iron to repair the ship and store up for future repairs. John watched money and promises be exchanged until he was bored to tears. 

Finally they headed back to the ship, but were halted along the way by three angry men who pointed at Sal and shouted something that sounded foul and offensive. John bristled and his hand flew to his sword hilt, but Sal stepped forward and snarled out a single sentence that left them standing there staring after her in shock as she pushed between them and strode proudly to the ship. Anderson left with a parting remark as well. John was left with no words to say, so he simply spat at their feet and continued with his eyes peeled for trouble. They let him pass but followed along at a distance. John didn’t spare them a glance but he could _feel_ their eyes on him. So could the others as he overheard them debating on whether to whistle for help or not now that they were closer to the ship. 

John was the one who acted first. The three men had suddenly picked up the pace and gotten nearly up on his back. He spun around and brought up his sword just in time to hack off a hand aiming to plunge a knife in his back. Donovan and Anderson fled back to him and they made short work of the other two. Sal grabbed him by the shoulders once two men lay dead and a third dying.

“Are you hurt? ARE YOU HURT?!”

John was so surprised by her accent vanishing that he simply stared for a moment. She shook him and he spat out a negative. She gripped him firmly by the arm and dragged him back to the ship as if he were a naughty child, depositing him at Sherlock’s feet with a forceful shove. John could have caught his balance, but his training with Sherlock kicked in and he dropped to his knees instead. Sal didn’t comment on it.

“Some idjits decide dey want to mess wid us. He fought bravely.”

“You’re unharmed?” Sherlock asked, frowning down at John.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Did you get the oil I requested?” 

John blinked up at him in confusion, but Sal answered by simply handing him a flask of oil, “Tree more where dat come from. Dey sold oot after dat.”

“Pity. Three will have to do. You’re on leave for the rest of the night. We reconvene tomorrow to continue repairs. John, our rooms need tidying up. Kindly evict our guests. They’ve far from overstayed their welcome.”

John jerked to his feet and ran for their rooms, giddy with relief. He was sure he’d be getting a punishment for _something_ or other, but instead he was getting to clean out their rooms! Sure, that didn’t sound like fun, but he was excited anyway. It meant he could hang up the strange apparatus that Sherlock had placed there before their cabin had been invaded by Lestrade and his secret lover. It meant he and Sherlock wouldn’t have to find quiet corners to fondle each other in. It meant… oil. John froze. Oil. Sherlock had mentioned oil more than once; usually in relation to something he wanted to do to John.Specifically, to John’s _arse_.

A/N If you wanna know what the privateers were singing/playing here it is:  [ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tDjYuqJRJQ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5tDjYuqJRJQ)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 10

  
****

** WARNING: Just for this chapter there will be description of an enema in use, though not in a sexual way. I am not a doctor and this should not be taken as medical advice.  **

John stepped into their cabin with an anxious look on his face only to find that Sherlock was working with some sort of chemists set. The swing was back up, attached in the middle of their small cabin and John stared at it with a mixture of apprehension and longing.

“So… um… oil.”

“Yes.”

“I got some.”

“Mm-hm. Donovan gave it to me in front of you, if you recall.”

“So… what are you doing there? Something for the ship?”

“No. Something for you.”

“Me?”

“A salt water enema to remove waste from your rectum in order to make sex a bit less messy.”

“That doesn’t _sound_ less messy.”

“Trust me. It is,” Sherlock replied, “At the moment I’m filtering it so there is a bit _less_ salt and no little sea creatures. Rather unpleasant up the bum, those little pests.”

“I can imagine,” John replied. He actually could. Farmers were always falling ill from the bugs that they warred against every day. 

 XXX

Sherlock stood outside the door to the privy and grinned in amusement. John had refused his help outright and he’d decided it wasn’t worth pressing. The man had a thing about human waste, apparently. It had been about 20 minutes and he was about to knock when he heard a shout from within.

“OH MY GOD!!”

Sherlock snickered. 

“SWEET MERCY! HOW DO I…? OH GOD! MAKE IT STOP!!”

Sherlock leaned against the door and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. John had obviously used too much solution, pushing fluids past the bend in his intestines to cause a deluge. That was the _opposite_ of what he should have done, but the best way to learn not to was to do it. He wiped tears from his cheek and knocked on the door.

“Let me in. I’ll help you clean up.”

“What?! No! I don’t want you seeing me like this… or smelling me for that matter!”

“John, it’s anal sex. I’m fully aware that shit will happen. If I’m not willing to clean up the mess with you than I don’t deserve the pleasure of buggering you.”

There was silence on the other side of the door and the John unlocked it and promptly sat back down on the hole that led to a chute for waste that led to the murky depths below. The latching lid served as a backrest when a person was seated on the six-inch hole. It was mostly used for pooping since peeing over the side of the deck was easier on a swaying ship. John was red with humiliation, but Sherlock didn’t see anything to be too horrified about. He had a bit of mess on him, but it wasn’t nearly as awful as Sherlock had dealt with before.

“Still coming out of you?”

John nodded miserably.

“It will take a bit to stop. You put too much solution in you so it triggered a muscle spasm that is going to clean you all out. I’ve got a bucket with soap and water outside, I’ll just grab it quick and wash up your legs while we wait for the diluge to end.”

“What? You don’t have to do that!” John looked horrified, “Sherlock, that’s… I mean, it’s _degrading_!”

“Cleaning up my bed-mate?” Sherlock asked, hand on the door latch, “Don’t be ridiculous. You care for my needs and I care for yours.”

Sherlock washed John’s legs, lifting them one at a time as he explained the proper method to John again, this time using his mistake as an example to avoid further accidents.

“It’s so different from how I treat patients,” John sighed, “In them I _want_ to trigger… this…”

“Obviously,” Sherlock nodded, “And as a doctor you of course decided you knew best and ignored my warnings. I knew you would, but feeling this is the best way to know what to avoid in the future. You want to put in just enough to wash out the waste. Let it flush out. Then wait about ten minutes. Then repeat.”

“That should clean me out enough for… that?” John asked, still uncomfortable about referring to sodomy in anything but vague terms.

“It should. You should also communicate with me _very_ clearly whenever you’re backed up. I have a solution you can drink that will flush you out in about an hour or two. Your bowels are about to become quite the open book between us.”

“How romantic,” John stated dryly.

“John,” Sherlock lifted his eyes and met his flustered lover’s gaze, “This is important. Communication is a _necessity_ in our type of relationship.”

“Between two men? I thought I’d have _less_ talking to deal with,” John sighed, recalling Mary’s habit of chatting his ear off while he struggled to stay conscious.

“Less pointless chatter, possibly, but more _pointed_ discussions. I can’t be beating you senseless if I can’t trust you to tell me when you’ve had too much.”

John closed his eyes and his expression turned pained as his abdomen cramped and his body let loose a series of rude noises.

“Oh my God, how can you _possibly_ see me as sexy after _this_?”

“Everybody poops,” Sherlock shrugged, taking the filthy bucket and heading for the door, “I’ll dump this in the privy next door and come back. I’ll bring you some water. We don’t want you getting dehydrated. Sex is off for today, by the way. We’ll wait and try tomorrow.”

“Great,” John sighed, “Ruined everything, have I?”

“No,” Sherlock smirked, “I told you, _I knew_ you’d do this. Everyone does the first time. There’s no shame in it, no reason to be upset with yourself. We’ll wait till tomorrow.”

Sherlock left John sitting there considering his words and went to fetch another enema kit so he could show him the proper method. John stood there in shock while Sherlock squatted over the hole and flushed _himself_ out. He obviously had never considered Sherlock would be willing to perform such a technique on himself.

“I _have_ bottomed, you know… for experimentation purposes only. It’s not something I enjoy, but having done so I now know how to make sure _you_ enjoy it.”

“You’re nothing if not thorough,” John chuckled, his expression fond, “I can’t believe we’re bonding over taking a shit.”

“Pooping is important in life. If you’d ever been constipated for three or more days in a row you’d know that,” Sherlock replied with a dignified sniff.

“Amen to that!” John laughed.

Sherlock decided that as long as John had already started the process he might as well do a full cleanse, so he had him drink a solution that had him running to the head repeatedly. The crew caught on and it became a game to try and waylay the man as he attempted a dignified brisk walk to the head with his arse clenched tight. They would stop him to ask questions or get his advice or show him a scratch they weren’t the least bit worried about. John would inevitably start talking faster and eventually started just pushing them out of his way. 

Sherlock decided this was a great exercise in evasion technique and dosed several other crewmembers that had poor footwork. The hall to the privy was then lined with delaying crewmen who would laugh at them uproariously as they tried to get to the head before they soiled themselves. Needless to say there was an abundance of laundry being scrubbed on the deck by the end of the day.  


[CHAPTER 11](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/183472.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 11

 “But _why_?!” Sherlock ranted, throwing down the letter. 

They had been stuck in port for repairs for two weeks now and Sherlock’s promise of more intimacy had been put on hold while he ran himself and everyone around him ragged. The repairs had him working twenty-hour days before collapsing into their bunk in absolute exhaustion. John often hung about along side him for long enough to feed him before retiring to bed alone. Now Sherlock had received a letter via some post that had apparently been snuck in, though why that was the case John had no idea. He got the impression the port they were in was loyal to Mycroft, but not to the crown of England.  

“Probably because it’s a barbaric idea,” Lestrade replied, picking up their missive.

“You were in on this, weren’t you?” Sherlock pouted, “You got Mycroft to turn me down.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Lestrade replied, “You’re ready to murder _thousands_ of people!”

“ _Pirates_. Thousands of _pirates_. Which we do regularly!”

“There aren’t just pirates at Tortuga, Sherlock,” Lestrade argued, “There are prostitutes, barkeeps, maids-“

“All who are in league with Moriarty and his merry men!” 

“ _Children_.”

“Children of prostitutes, barkeeps, and maids _who are in league with Moriarty!”_

“Still children. Still innocent,” John put in softly, looking up from where he knelt at Sherlock’s feet, “My Lord… Sherlock… your plan is insane. _This_ is what you wanted me to stop you from, isn’t it? From going so far over that thin line that you _became_ Moriarty?”

Sherlock glanced down at John and then looked away, staring out the window of his office on deck that doubled as the officer’s mess. He tapped his fingers on his desk and then motioned to the letter and the safe. Lestrade nodded and headed over to lock up the missive while John laid his head on Sherlock’s knee and accepted his gentle caresses. His fingers trembled a bit. He was bone tired and they had a deadline to meet. Apparently it was getting impossible to hide them at this port since one of their fool crewmembers leaked the real name of their ship. They had to be out in a matter of days. _Before_ someone organized a ship or footmen to attack them. 

XXX

Once they set sail and left the port far behind them Sherlock collapsed into their bunk and slept for a solid sixteen hours straight. When he woke up he was cranky and miserable, snapping at everyone around him and shuffling about the ship wrapped in only a sheet. John hurried to fetch him anything he demanded while shooing crewmen out of his way whose business wasn’t important enough to justify braving Sherlock’s wrath. When he finally passed out again he’d only been awake for four hours, mostly eating and using the loo, and he slept for another nine before springing out of bed as if it were Christmas morning. John had been about to turn in from his own shift ending and stood there with his jaw dropped as Sherlock leered at him.

“Have you cleaned yourself out?”

“Not… not as such, no.”

“Do so. I’ll be wanting you in a few hours,” Sherlock replied, throwing on his clothes slapdash.

“I’ll be partway through my sleep shift in a few hours,” John replied.

“So? We’ll call a halt if someone stubs their toe. Do as I say!” Sherlock chirped cheerfully before heading for the door. 

“Okay,” John sighed, then went to prepare his enema while Sherlock whistled his way down the hall.

John was finished in the head, so he went to the cook to request a pitcher of heated water and a basin. He took those to their rooms and scrubbed his bottom to a shine. Sherlock had told him some men shaved down there as well and had made Anderson demonstrate how he did so for Cap’n Sal. John had been horrified and Sherlock had dismissed it as unnecessary, telling John that if he ever felt ‘pretty’ he could do so but that Sherlock himself didn’t find it necessary. Now he was wondering if he _should_ shave. John had spent some time talking to Anderson about what to expect when being taken by Sherlock and it sounded as if a fair amount of it involved Sherlock’s mouth on his arsehole. If that were the case he’d probably be less annoyed if he didn’t get hair in his mouth; John definitely hated it when he got Sherlock’s pubic hair in his mouth while giving him a blowjob. Finally John decided that if Sherlock wanted him shaved he’d do it himself, which posed less risk of John cutting himself with the straight razor. An hour later Sherlock entered with a predatory smile on his face and all thoughts fled John’s brain.

XXX

The swing was more complicated than John had anticipated. Once undressed, he was told to lie down across two leather strips and his legs were tied to two dangling ropes suspended on pulleys. This seemed very straightforward, but there was more. After that his arms were tied to the leather strap at the wrists so he was trapped with them at his side. Sherlock fashioned a rope harness around his chest that twisted down and secured his hips and thighs to the strip at his lower back that ran up at an angle along his thighs to the ceiling.

John lay still while Sherlock manipulated his body, sometimes stroking him, sometimes pinching him, but always touching him. He felt himself start to rise into that floating space that he had been seeking since his punishment. It felt _good_ , but he was still only partway there. He was just about to start begging for pain when Sherlock stepped back.

“Perfect. Now. Shall we test it?” 

John went from glowing at the praise to jerking his head up to stare at Sherlock in excitement. He didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure what to say and his angle was strained without something supporting his head. 

Then Sherlock pulled on the chords tied to the pulleys and his entire body was _flipped_. John opened his mouth to shout, but the wind had been momentarily knocked out of him. He was dangling face down now, his legs shut tight as the rope twisted behind him. The thickness of the rope harness prevented him from being brutalized by the rope, possibly damaging a limb. 

“I could fuck you like this. Or beat you,” Sherlock informed him, his hand stroking along John’s cleft. I think for now I’ll finger you open so I can fuck you later. Then I’ll flip you over and we’ll start playing.”

Sherlock fetched the oil and began working his finger into John’s bum. With his cheeks clenched tight it was a tight squeeze and John’s cock instantly hardened. He could imagine thrusting into something like that would be almost teasing. It might be too tight to even climax. Or it might be _just tight enough_. Sherlock’s finger worked him open and then a second joined it while his other hand held one cheek spread to let him work his muscles. It burned a bit, but John was relaxed from the rope play and eager to please Sherlock. His neck was straining, and that was more than enough distraction for him. When Sherlock nudged his prostate John whimpered in shame and pleasure as his cock leaked onto the floor beneath them. That was it. The spot inside of a man. His father had called it the _Devil’s Knot,_ and informed John quite firmly that a man who liked it touched was a man headed for hell.

_ In a hand-painted cutter with the sail set to billow,  _ John thought, shivering in pleasure. 

John noticed he was moaning nonstop and tried to silence it, but a slap to his bottom pointed out how unwise that was. Sherlock liked to hear him. The louder the better. John was silent most of the time while Sherlock was loud, Sherlock barking out orders while John quietly but firmly nudged him towards the moral high ground, but in bed their positions were reversed. In bed Sherlock was silent except for the occasional whispered order or praise right up until he came with a shout of bliss. In bed John spent the entire time whimpering, sobbing, shouting, screaming, swearing, and _coming_ so hard it took his voice away. 

“Well, that’s all I can manage from this angle. Let’s turn you over and make sure you’re stretched enough.”

Sherlock pulled the lever the other way and John was flipped onto his back with much less effort than before. Sherlock carefully examined the ropes and made sure he hadn’t been injured in a serious way. Then he fetched a riding crop from his personal effects with a smile. 

“Look what I got for you. Isn’t it pretty? I’ve had your name engraved on the handle.”

Sherlock showed him where John’s name was carved into the wooden grip. John blushed and felt affection tug at his heart. He wanted to tell Sherlock how much that meant to him, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Instead he smiled tenderly and Sherlock reached out to stroke his hair gently. John’s bound body swayed with the ship and Sherlock’s torso danced with him, moving like a serpent being teased out of a jar by a flute.

“So handsome. So strong. So mine,” Sherlock purred.

“Yes,” John replied this time, “Yours, My Lord.”

Sherlock smiled and brought the crop down on the inside of his thigh, just beyond the rope restraint. John jumped as pain blossomed and then vanished. Another strike to his ankle, and then one on his chest right over a pierced- and now healed- nipple. John howled as pain and pleasure shot from his nipple down to his cock, which bobbed teasingly in his line of sight. Sherlock licked his lips as he eyed up John’s pulsing member, but didn’t take it in his mouth. Not yet. John didn’t even _want_ him to. He wanted the explosion of pleasure and joy that would come from their cruel foreplay. 

Sherlock continued to walk around him, striking him here and there, and then slipped two fingers inside to continue fingering him open. When he had his digits on John’s p-spot he began to bring the crop down on John’s chest in sharp, fast, strikes. He mostly hit the same three areas until they burned and John was left shouting in confused pain and pleasure. Over and again they fell, shaking him from top to bottom as he writhed on Sherlock’s fingers. John was sure his chest was a mess of red, raised welts, but it only made him want more. 

Sherlock’s fingers left him empty and the ropes were pulled to flip him over. The crop came down before he could catch his breath, sharp on his upper back. Sherlock began to work his way down, focusing on one area at a time to sharpen the pain until John was screaming for him to move to a different area. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. None of that mattered. What mattered was that Sherlock had thrust him straight into his headspace where he could moan and shiver and bask in the feeling of being consumed by this beautiful, passionate, powerful man. Sherlock finally stopped pounding his flesh with the crop and started on his bottom with his bare hand.

John loved this the most. It was Sherlock’s flesh striking him, a parallel to what he’d be doing inside of him shortly… or perhaps perpendicular was more of an accurate description as those long-fingered hands came down across his bottom again and again. John writhed and jumped like a fly in a web while Sherlock grunted and strained to deliver the amount of blows he craved despite his aching arm and burning hand. 

Then it stilled, but John was soaring high above the ship on wings of chemicals that danced in his brain. He could hear himself whimpering and sighing in bliss, even the occasional chuckle, but it was all extraneous. Nothing mattered. Not his body. Not his pleasure. Not his pain. Just the high and the scent of his lover. He wasn’t even holding his head up anymore. 

Sherlock’s fingers were stroking his insides again, making liberal use of the oil. A soft sound of skin sliding reached his ears and then the spongy head of Sherlock’s cock pressed against his entrance. 

“So tight like this. Too tight, actually. This time, at least.”

Sherlock turned him over and lowered another rope which he slung beneath John’s head to keep him upright. John relaxed into it with a relieved sigh. Sherlock took hold of him beneath his knees and pressed slowly in. John watched in awe as Sherlock’s eyes glazed and his full lips parted in a soft gasp. He didn’t feel the burn of entry; too many other parts of his body were on fire already. He’d feel it tomorrow, but for now he was completely focused on the sight of Sherlock throwing his head back as he tried to stop himself from thrusting too soon for John’s virginal body. Only when John whimpered out a soft _‘please_ ’ did he begin to move again, thrusting slowly at first and then building rhythm. 

“Sherlock!” John shouted, as his prostate was stroked with each thrust. 

Sherlock was moaning softly. He kept trying to keep his eyes open to memorize John’s every expression, but they fell shut over and again as passion overwhelmed him. 

“John! You’re so tight! So perfect! Gods, I I’m going to _fill you_.”

“Y-yes,” John moaned.

Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s cock while the other gripped the harness so he could continue to propel John’s body onto his cock. John gasped as he found himself being stroked in tandem with fucked, his brain shorting out from the mixed pleasure combined with the burn on his skin from his beating and the pinch of the ropes. His climax tore out of him with a loud cry as if he were ripped asunder, and they came to a slow, swaying halt like driftwood on the surface of the ocean. John pried his eyes open and gazed up at Sherlock panting over his body, holding onto the swing as if it would preserve his life.

“John,” he whispered.

“My Lord?” John gasped out.

“I need you.”

“You’ve… you’ve just had me. Didn’t you... er… finish?” John asked, becoming more worried by the second. 

Sherlock’s ethereal eyes slid open and he stared down at John, a bead of sweat making a slow journey down his temple. 

“Yes.”

“Than what…?”

“I have many needs,” Sherlock replied.

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll do my best to meet them all.”

“Good man,” Sherlock replied with a soft smile before leaning down and capturing his lips in a long, lazy kiss. When they parted again it was with the fond smiles of lovers that John had thought he’d never share with anyone but Mary. He was lowered to the floor gently, and caught roughly when he stumbled, and they made their way giggling over to the cistern to freshen up. John wasn’t embarrassed by his body anymore. Sherlock knew him from the tallest hair on his head to the soles of his feet, and John knew most of him the same. 

All that was left for the two weary sailors was sleep. 

[CHAPTER 12](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/183643.html)

  



	12. vincentmeoblinn | Life On The Tobias Redbeard Ch 12

 

Sherlock was a surprisingly forgetful man for a fellow with a brain that functioned on a plain akin to godhood. He’d left his hat on his desk. It being a painfully bright day he sent John down (with a swat to his bum to speed him along) to fetch it for him. John was whistling cheerfully when he noticed the map spread out on the desk. He glanced at it without really seeing it, noting the clips holding it open and the burnt out candle nearby, before snatching up Sherlock’s hat from its hook and heading back for the door. 

Then he froze. John’s brain was turning something over, and while he was no fool he wasn’t the brilliant scientist and explorer that Sherlock was. As such it took him a moment to realize that there was something amiss with the map he’d laid eyes on. John turned and headed back with a feeling of apprehension. The map wasn’t written on, of course, but a chalkboard beside it had notes that were kept to mark their position. John lifted it and held it beside the map as a sick feeling swelled inside of him. Then he turned and bolted topside where he confronted Sherlock without an ounce of hesitation, throwing his hat at his chest as he shook with rage.

“Iceland? We were in _Iceland_?”

“How did you…?” Sherlock replied, quirking an eyebrow and ignoring the hat on the ground in front of him. 

“Mary’s been there for ages! In a forced marriage! He could have broken her by now!”

“Which is why you are better off here, with me,” Sherlock replied, “Why go after your _wedded_ bride? She is probably swollen with his sprog by now.”

John didn’t remember tackling Sherlock, yet there they were on the ground being dragged apart by shocked crewmates. Sherlock’s shrugged off his crew and John was released automatically. Where their loyalty lay no one knew at that point. 

“ _You_ ,” Sherlock snarled, “Have never had it better. Mary had a choice to run or accept her fate back in England. She could have easily slipped away by night, summoned you at a window like the Juliet you are, and been married by dawn. Her father would have had to accept it and life would have gone on- if a bit uncomfortably at first- with relative norm. She chose her ‘forced marriage’ over _you_.”

Someone stepped in between them to head John off, but he grabbed the man, shoved him down to hands and knees, stepped on his back, and leaped at Sherlock in blind rage. Once again they were separated and this time Sherlock was sporting a split lip.  

“You selfish bastard!” John raged at him.

“Oh, _I’m_ selfish? You’re chasing after a married woman, John! For all you know a _happily_ married one! And running from _what_ exactly? Hm? What are you _running_ from? Not me, you’re happy to kneel at my feet. No, you were running _before_ you even met me. So what is it? What _shame_ at home had you fleeing after a lost cause, surely to _die_ on the way? Your homosexuality? No, you were clearly ready and willing to marry and hide that forever. Possibly with dalliances on the side. Did you have a young stable hand already picked out? Irrelevant. No, you were running from your _boring_ life towards any type of violent or romantic end you could find. The fact is you’ve got a danger lust and you’ll fulfil it any way you can. First with me, and now by _leaving_ me in order to run to the next big rush!”

“This isn’t! About! YOU!” John shouted.

“No it isn’t, but nor is it about _Mary_. It’s about _you_ John,” Sherlock stepped closer to him, up into his face, and lowered his voice to an intense whisper, “If you want that fix John I promise you I can give it to you in spades. You want to feel like you’re on the edge of death? I will tie you up, dangle you from the mizzenmast during a hurricane, and fuck you raw while you scream my name. I will take up waterboarding. I will torture you within an inch of your life. Say the word and I will remove every shred of humanity you have left to you. One word, John. _Say it_. You know it so well, you screamed it just last night.”

John was shaking. Rage and lust combined in one. Then he acted the only way he could to protect himself from the all-consuming force that was Sherlock Holmes. He grabbed him by the front of his fine jacket and slammed his forehead into his nose. They were pried apart again and this time Sherlock was gushing blood. He was also shaking with rage. 

“Take him to the cutter!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

There was a moment of stunned stillness and John’s brain scrambled to remember what a cutter was. It sounded painful. Would he enjoy it? No… wait… the cutter was the little sailboat they used for jobs that required less sailing than a proper boat and more than the gig. It was made to go long distances and could be crewed by one or two hands. John was dragged towards it and thrown to the ground. Sherlock’s familiar foot landed in the small of his back and pinned him to the ground. 

“Unlash it. Prepare it for journey. Williams fetch food, Finnigan you get other supplies. Don’t be stingy, we’re bidding our beloved crewman a fond farewell! Eustace his belongings are stored in one drawer of my bed; they’ll be distinguishable by the fact they’re clearly of poor quality. Wrap them up and bring them here.”

“What are you doing?” John asked from his position on the deck. He wrenched his neck around to stare up at Sherlock, but his expression of false cheer was alarming with a bloody flannel over his nose.

“Giving you a proper send-off,” Sherlock replied cheerfully.

The cutter was carried to the edge and strung up, bags were tossed in and a small water barrel placed in the stern, then John was carried over with equal care and tossed into it as well. A few worried glances were thrown his way, but no one made actual eye contact. They all looked rather sad. John scrambled to check the bundles and found that he really _was_ set to survive. A glance back caused him to meet Sherlock’s eyes. The enigmatic man held him frozen as he leaned over and held out a rolled up parchment with the cord of a compass wrapped around it. 

“A final gift to you, my _former_ pet, as you set off to find your _former_ bride,” Sherlock’s deep voice purred. He gripped a rope and leaned out, stretching himself out until he was close enough to kiss John while hanging by one arm with his feet still planted on the rails of the deck. John leaned in, his lips parting hungrily, but before their mouths could touch Sherlock spoke.

“I would have given you the world if you’d let me. Fool.”

The map and compass dropped into his lap and John stared up as Sherlock swung himself upright with a hand-over-hand movement that only a he and monkeys were capable of. Then he quickly disengaged the rope holding the cutter in position and John’s stomach dropped out as he and the boat were quickly lowered into the water below. He rocked a moment, knocking against the side, and then stared as the boat quickly moved past him, the waves from its passage pushing him into a slow spin. He pivoted his head to stare after it as horror slowly drew up in his belly. A few hands were raised in farewell and he lifted his hesitantly as he stared at the man he loved vanishing into the distance. He lost track of time, just sitting there with sails furled and his boat still slowly turning as he stared down at his hands and wondered _how_ they had ended up raised against the man who had saved his life and given him such intense joy and pleasure. 

“Nothing for it now,” John whispered softly, “Soldier on, John.”

Then he pushed himself upright, grabbed an oar to stop his boat wandering, and unwrapped the map. He had been schooled a bit in navigation, but it hadn’t been his primary instruction- it was only an offshoot of his survival training. He’d lost such track of time that he couldn’t tell where he was by the sun. He’d have to wait for nightfall. In the mean time he’d arrange his blankets and hammock to avoid the sun beating down on him by day. 

When nightfall came he woke from his nap and crawled out of the little nest he’d made. His hammock was strung across the middle of the boat to give him a soft space to sleep, one blanket for warmth above and another below, and an extra sail was stretched from the mast to the rails to provide him with shelter from the blazing noonday sun. He would take it down when he moved, as he quickly did now between scanning the sky for the stars he needed. He finally got a break in the clouds and grinned at the sight. He knew where he was now. He got out the map and compass, using a shaded lantern to determine his course, and turned his boat. With the sails out in full, and as much determination as wind, his small swift craft could be there in three days. Then he would take Mary, loot the house she was trapped in shamelessly, and flee with her back to England on the first available transport. If she wasn’t too opposed to the idea he might even take the cutter back to Greenland and live there instead, free from both their parent’s reign. If she sported a child as Sherlock had suggested he would simply raise the babe as his own. 

XXX

“All hands!” Victor shouted, “All hands on deck!” 

Sherlock stepped forward when the bell fell silent and the gathered people were as solemn as a funeral. He towered over them up on the higher deck as he glared at his mass of frightened crewmembers. Most had their hats off as if they were in church and one man had tears running down his face.

“I want a name,” Sherlock stated calmly, “I want to know _who_ told John that we had been in Iceland. You all were aware that he was to be oblivious of our location. He was _never_ to find out. So. _Who told him_?”

Silence. Sherlock waited. He would wait for days if he had to. His bladder was empty and so was his stomach. He couldn’t abide the thought of food or drink at the moment, not unless it was to bury himself in alcohol until the pain went away. Instead he would bury himself in blood if he didn’t get his answers.

“Very well,” Sherlock stated, “Then I’ll begin questioning every single… yes? You! Step forward!”

A man had hesitantly raised his hand. Sherlock recognized him and motioned until he stepped free of the group. He looked terrified and _very_ guilt ridden. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to pull out his gun and level it at the man.

“Not me! Not me! NOT ME!” He shouted, “I din’ tell him, M’lord, I swear on me mum!!”

“Then. Who. Did?”

“I… I… I saw it in your cabin!”

“Saw what?”

“The map! When I went to fetch his things- you told me to, remember- I saw a map on the desk and coordinates beside it on a chalkboard. He must have seen em!”

Sherlock snorted, “I tore out Iceland from every map on this ship and threw it out. That’s impossible. Lying is now a death sentence. Goodbye.”

The man attempted to bolt through the crowd, some of which parted while others thrust him forward to use as a shield when Sherlock’s pistol continued to track him. Victor was the one who called them to calm down and asked Sherlock to at _least_ look in his cabin before killing a man. Sherlock sighed as if much put upon and headed down to his cabin. Victor trailed after him. 

Sherlock opened his door and stepped in, shuddering as John’s scent assailed his nose. It would soon vanish to be replaced by his own lonely odour. He was abandoned; alone, once again on the cold and unloving sea. _Caring is not an advantage_. 

Sherlock froze. There was no map- to suggest otherwise was ludicrous- and his navigation chalkboard showed none of Iceland’s coordinates. That being said _something_ was definitely off. He circled his room a few times, picked things up and discarded them, then carefully studied his chalkboard. 

“That man is pardoned,” Sherlock stated, “But keep a close eye on him.”

“Okay. That’s… good. May I ask why, sir?”

“You may.

“… … … Why?”

“Because we’ve a traitor on board.”

XXX

It took him four days in the end, and he spent the first night back in Iceland in an Inn- in the port that was secretly friendly to Mycroft- where he tossed and turned in misery. Mary wasn’t here. She and her husband- a privateer under Danish rule, thus a pirate in the eyes of an Englishman- were settled into an impenetrable fort called Skansin in Torshavn, the capital of the Faroe Islands off the coast of Iceland. He could easily take his little boat there, but to get _into_ the lighthouse and fort was said to be impossible. It had held off English attack for ten years now! 

By morning he had made up his mind. He collected supplies and set out for Faroe islands. The wind was again in his favour and he reached it by dawn the next morning, crouching down low in his boat as he stared at it through an eyeglass. He had only a small window of time while the sun was at his back and blocking their view of him. He’d have to row away quickly or they’d realize that he was far from the fisherman he was posing as. He counted the cannons and studied the lay of the land. There were impassable cliffs to the North and islands around it that made approaching it secretly completely impossible, especially if one didn’t want to end up beached. Of course, that was a problem for a _large_ vessel. A cutter could slide in and out between the islands with ease. With John dressed as a fisherman and his boat disguised as a fishing vessel he only got some passing glares from the patrol cutters. One did tell him to move it along, that these weren’t fishing waters, but most of them just glared. Having been spotted, John sailed away and found a shaded beach beneath a cliff where he pulled up on it to sleep the rest of the day away. He knew his plan now and would be taking on the task come dusk.

The main flaw in the fort was that it was set up to repel water attacks, not land attacks. They _did_ have a foot guard, of course, but John was stubborn and a small individual. He was certain that if he took his time he could sneak in. He was at one disadvantage in that the guards did not stick to a strict schedule when patrolling at night, but he would make it work. Somehow.

Mary’s room was a chore to find and he had to be painfully quiet. He’d had to kill three different men and hide their bodies and the evidence- thank God for the ridiculous quantity of throw rugs to cover stains- as he worked his way through the lighthouse. Finally he reached a room that overlooked the sea. Without even looking around he _knew_ this was Mary’s room. She would have begged for it. Sure enough the nearby closet was full of rich dresses. John slipped in amongst them and hid away, waiting for Mary to return to her chambers. While he was there he explored the closet and located a dress that felt like what he’d imagined fairy wings felt like as a child, soft and light and silken. He found himself stroking it lovingly while waiting for Mary, the sweet smell of lemons filled the small closet as it did anywhere that Mary went. He found himself longing for her soft touch. He’d never gone further than holding her in his arms and pressing a kiss to her forehead, her skin like baby powder and hair like sunshine. Well, he was far from virginal now- Sherlock had seen to that- and Mary wouldn’t be either. They could dispense with the formalities. John would throw her down on the bed and have her. 

The thought did surprisingly little for him. The idea of breasts sounded nice in the same way the soft cloth did against his skin, and the feel of a soft body sounded appealing, but in a sleepy way. Like he could curl up against her, breathe in that lemon scent, and sleep for days. 

_ Sherlock smells spicy, not fruity. Like pine needles and herbs from his mattress and all that chemist work.  _

John shook that thought out of his head. Sherlock was gone on the big, wide ocean and he’d likely never see him again. John pushed down the pang of longing that accompanied that mental image and steeled himself as the door opened. He peered out the partially open door and was relieved to see that Mary was alone in her small room. She was in her nightclothes and a housecoat, a hat modestly covering her damp hair. So she’d been bathing, then. That should arouse him, right?

_ No matter. I’m here. I’ve come this far. I’ll make due.  _

She removed the housecoat and John winced. She was indeed pregnant, though not so far along that he’d worry about birthing a child in a boat. Well… perhaps it was for the best as he wasn’t sure he could impregnate her if his body was unwilling to respond to a woman. He’d use his mouth to keep her sated and his devotion to keep her happy, and the child would help that along. Besides, having been through such horrors it was entirely likely she wouldn’t want to lie with a man again anyway. They could go back to being friends like they were as children. John smiled as that image, the two of them chasing each other through corn mazes and helping their mother’s around their houses. They would beat out the carpets and laugh about it as they played pirates. Well… John could show her a thing or two now! 

Mary was humming to herself as she moved to blow out the candle and that’s when John realized she wasn’t expecting her husband to come to bed. With rooms so small and plentiful in the narrow column of stone it was likely he was a floor above or below. John slipped out of the closet and carefully whispered to her.

“It’s John, Mary,” He hissed.

Mary jumped but thankfully didn’t scream, staring at him in shock before backing up in alarm.

“I’ll scream,” She whispered, her voice quite stolen with fear.

John pulled off his sailor’s cap, “Really, it’s me! John! I know I look different; I’ve been at sea for… well, for ages. I’ve lost track of how long. I’m the same John, though. I’ve come to rescue you and take you back to England. Or anywhere you want to go. I’ve a boat and…”

Mary was laughing, “Oh my goodness, _John._ To think _you_ frightened _me_! _”_ __

John smiled and stepped forward to take her hands, but they went to her mouth as she shook with laughter.

“What’s so funny,” John smiled, “Do I look silly? I had to disguise myself as a fisherman.”

So saying John stripped off the clothes that covered his privateer clothing and weapons, leaving the ragged garments in a pile on the floor. He stood before her in trousers made of sailcloth and an open shirt that displayed his glittering nipple rings. Mary stopped laughing and stared with wide eyes. John stepped over to her bedside table and poured some water into her washing bin, splashing the mud off his face and neck. When he straightened up it was to see her eyes had turned heated.

“John,” She breathed, “John I’ve never _seen_ you like this before!”

John smiled, but with less comfort as he held out his hand to her again, “Pretty Mary of the sunshine hair. Come away with me.”

“I’ve a better idea. I know I’m plump but… some men like that sort of thing,” Mary pulled the tie at her neck and slid her clothes down over her pale body. John gaped at the expanse of flesh revealed to him, “What do you think, Johnny? Let me touch those…”

John’s hand caught her wrist as she reached out to touch his nipple rings and he tugged her against him firmly even as his mind screamed for a halt. Mary was flushed with desire as she pressed herself against him, the soft swell of her belly against his own. Were he aroused his erection would be brushing the base but nothing could have aroused him about this situation. He’d assumed she wouldn’t be shy, but the way she spoke just now…

“What men?” John asked, “Did that bastard _hand you out_?”

Mary laughed, her tone scathing instead of the music she recalled, “Oh damn, you _haven’t_ changed! Still the prude!”

Mary groped his crotch, and then pulled away upon finding no response, her face twisted in derision.

“Mary what… I wasn’t a _prude_ , I’ve been respecting you!”

“I can respect myself, thank you very much!” She snapped, “What I can’t do is outlive the vision you have of me as a five year old girl! I’m a _woman_ now, John! I have a woman’s needs! Needs that you obviously won’t bother fulfilling and that my old and often absent husband can’t be bothered with!”

“W-what?” He asked in shock.

“Yes. Fine. I’ve been with a few men. Is that so shameful?” She asked, her eyes shining with tears, “Men bed women by the dozen and aren’t thought of as less for it!”

“Okay,” John nodded, “Fair enough. I’ve… I’ve been with a man myself. I can certainly see the appeal. Now you’re going to be a mother soon, so let’s leave and settle down into a proper home. If you need a man in your bed and I can’t accommodate you, I’m sure we can find someone…”

“You!” Mary laughed, “You have no self respect! What man tells me he’ll let me take another into his bed?”

“Your husband, apparently,” John replied, his voice dry.

“That old goat? He’s completely unaware. He sails around hunting English privateers while I take my guards to bed. I only had to lay with him once to make sure he was convinced it was his child I was carrying. He’d rather touch his money than me. Hell, he isn’t even in _need_ of an heir as he’s got a son already! I’m a trophy wife, and what a trophy!”

Mary stroked her own breasts and John backed away, confused and a bit disgusted. Not because she was promiscuous- he had learned too much of women from those on _The Tilly_ to think them asexual beings- but because there was cruelty glittering in her eyes. Cruelty and greed.

“Look what he gives me, John!” She walked across the room and opened up three jewellery boxes in a row to show off her treasures, “Look at them! Could you give me these? Could you shower me with riches? Of course not! Your father told my father the truth of the matter. He got drunk and spilled the beans about your brother gambling away the family fortune. You were living month to month on patient fees in a tiny village! There was no way I was going to become a pauper wife to a man who was _also_ a shirt lifter! So I begged my father to find me someone better and he did! Now I’m rich and spoilt like I deserve to be!”

Now it was John who was laughing, shaking his head at the paltry baubles before him. They were _pathetic_ , nothing to the wealth in Sherlock’s hold, and they held none of the warmth that his lover’s arms… John pushed that thought aside. There was one bauble he wanted.

“Your engagement ring,” John stated, holding out his hand, “Give it to me.”

“Why should I?” Mary asked, “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Because I want it back,” John replied, “It was all I had saved up and I wasted it on you. I’m going to give it to someone who deserves it.”

“Impossible,” Mary taunted, “I threw it overboard. I have a dozen better rings, and these aren’t even the ones in my strongbox!”

“Good,” John replied, pulling out his sword, “Then you won’t miss them. If you’re truly on this path than you’re no longer an English woman. You’re Dutch now, and the wife of a pirate. As I’m a privateer that means you’re about to get the raw end of a deal, _my dear old friend_.”


	13. Chapter 13

RANDOM PIRATE FACT: By 1640, the buccaneers of Tortuga were calling themselves the  _[Brethren of the Coast](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brethren_of_the_Coast)_. The pirate population was mostly made up of French and Englishmen, along with a small number of Dutchmen. In 1645, in an attempt to bring harmony and control over the island, the acting French governor imported roughly 1,650 [prostitutes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prostitute), hoping to normalize the unruly pirates' lives. 

 

No one called Sherlock ‘Freak’ anymore. ‘Demon’ was far more accurate. ‘Terror’ also applied. The loyal stayed, but there were those who deserted. In fact there were so many who deserted that soon there were only enough crewmen for one ship. That at least improved the situation somewhat because Lestrade and Donovan could take turns reining him in while they were all on _The Redbeard_. Even Hooper stepped in once when he was rampaging across the deck with the intent of beating a crewmember that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She threw her arms around his neck and hung onto him until his rage stopped, despite being drug partway across the ship while he snarled and tried to pry her off. In the end he finally stopped, dropped the riding crop onto the deck, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly for a moment with his head bowed down. When they finally eased apart Molly picked up his crop for him and handed it back. He slipped it into his belt and went to his room in silence. He stayed for nearly two days before coming back out with a tired look on his face.

“We’re going to Tortuga,” Sherlock announced.

Everyone instinctively looked at Lestrade and Donovan, and Lestrade stepped forward.

“We’ve got one ship, Sherlock. I realized the treaty a while back reduced the pirating in Tortuga, but it’s still pretty wild there. We can’t take them on alone, so unless you’re planning on _joining_ them and sailing under foreign flag…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going through with my original plan.”

“Your… your _original_ plan? The one that would result in an entire island of dead people?” Lestrade asked in horror.

“An entire Island of dead _pirates_ , yes. And no casualties on our part at all.”

Those nearest to the conversation looked interested, their eyebrows raised as they chatted about how beneficial that sounded. Lestrade had to put a stop to that _right_ then.

“Some people on that Island aren’t pirates anymore, Sherlock. A lot of them _never were_.”

“Yet they are in league with them, providing food and other comforts. This will solve our problems for the _entire_ Caribbean, George.”

“Greg,” Lestrade replied, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, “And no, it won’t. It will be mass murder and we’ll all go to hell for it.”

“Most of us are headed there anyway,” Sherlock replied with a casual wave of his hand.

“And prison,” Lestrade reminded.

“Only I would be subjected to such punishment since I was leading you. The crew would be free of punishment.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to explain to Sherlock that they’d still be called cowards and worse, but Sherlock cut him off by pointing out something rather unarguable.

“Unless,” He continued, “You all decide to mutiny. Then you’ll be hung for mutiny regardless of the order you refused to follow.”

Silence. And fear. Wide eyes all around the ship stared up at them as Lestrade watched the crew question their loyalty and safety with the man who was clearly losing his mind.

“So when do we leave?” Lestrade sighed miserably.

“Immediately,” Sherlock replied, “Helmsman! Change coarse forty-five degrees to the North!”

“North?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“We’ll need supplies to make the poison,” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he scrambled down a ladder and headed for the galley.

An hour later they heard the haunting tone of his violin and Lestrade shuddered in fear. Sherlock had only played cheerful tunes around John, or if they were sad than they were the pieces that he used to help his thinking process. This, however, was a piece that Sherlock had written two years ago when he’d first conceived of his horrific idea of poisoning the water supplies of islands that supported pirates. He’d originally wanted to enact his plan on Skansin, cutting out Moriarty’s right hand man Magnus Heinason, however since John had appeared he’d altered the plan to be Tortuga instead. Lestrade knew the reason, but it had been forbidden to discuss any plans- past or future- about Skansin. Mycroft had originally _approved_ the poison attack on Skansin since there were virtually no civilians on the island, but Tortuga was a settlement, not a fort. Mycroft’s stance was clear.

Sherlock came out onto the deck, violin in hand, swaying with the ship and the music in a macabre dance as he sang in his cigar-and-whiskey-deep-voice. Lestrade gaped at him. It hadn’t had words last time he’d heard this song, and the lyrics only betrayed to him just how far gone their mad Admiral was. All around him the crew fell into sync with him as they often did when their Admiral played, but their expressions had changed to pre-John. All around him the men and women’s eyes were vacant, their eyebrows drawn, their lips pressed tight, their heads down. They were in survival mode and Lestrade wasn’t sure how many would survive despite his promise now that Sherlock was well and truly mad.

“I like my town,” He sang with a wicked grin on his face, “With a little drop of poison. Nobody knows, they’re lined up to go insane. I’m all alone, I smoke my friends down to ash and soot, but I feel much cleaner after it rains. And he left in the fall, that’s his picture on the wall, he always had that little drop of _pooooison_!”

XXX

It was a month before everything was prepared for their assault on Tortuga. December meant the end of hurricane season but the beginning of the coldest weather in most countries. The boats all moved slower as some icebergs could drift down far enough to send a ship straight to the ocean floor.

The island was cold and the water often frozen, especially where Sherlock and three crewmen crept up to the well in the centre of town. Sherlock watched as his men poured the toxin into the water, smirking in amusement. It would take time seeing as most of the liquid imbibed was liquor on this island, but as the poison could survive the fermenting process it would eventually take out everyone on the island. If he’d measured the dose correctly it would even kill those who bathed in it, albeit far more slowly and with rather gruesome side effects.

The last step was the one Lestrade had talked him into. Using yellow and black paint he covered the well with four Yellow Jacks. All around the well in a circle he wrote a warning.

_FLEE THE ISLAND. PLAGUE IS COMING._

XXX

_Little Drop Of Poison_

_(End Of Violence version, 1997, Originally by Tom Waits)_

_I like my town with a little drop of poison_

_Nobody knows, they're lining up to go insane_

_I'm all alone, I smoke my friends down to the filter_

_But I feel much cleaner after it rains_

_She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall_

_She always had that little drop of poison_

_She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall_

_She always had that little drop of poison_

_Did the devil make the world while god was sleeping_

_Someone said you'll never get a wish from a bone_

_Another long goodbye and a hundred sailors_

_That deep blue sky is my home_

_She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall_

_She always had that little drop of poison_

_She left in the fall, that's her picture on the wall_

_She always had that little drop of poison_

_A rat always knows when he's in with weasels_

_Here you loose a little every day_

_I remember when a million was a million_

_They all have ways to make you pay_

_They all have ways to make you pay_


	14. Chapter 14

John hadn’t gone in with a plan to loot the place of treasure but he _had_ terminated most of the danger on the way in to make way with looting _Mary_. All that was left was to silence Mary and get out quickly and easily. He decided to get a bit of revenge on her so he stripped her of her clothes, tied, and gagged her. Then he donned the dress from the closet that had made him think such naughty thoughts. It didn’t tie in the back, but it was enough to make him look like a woman with a bit of scarf tied over his head.

John he pulled Mary along by her elbow as he crept from the chambers with a travel sack full of her best jewels. He’d not found a ring to his liking so he crept down to Magnus’ chambers to relieve him of _his_ jewels as well, using the man’s wife’s key to break into the rooms. He broke open the lockbox and sorted through it till he found a few rings he liked. He decided he’d choose _the_ ring later, stringing them on a simple chain and putting it around his neck. That was when he saw the shaving kit. He made quick use of it and then stored it in with the rest of his belongings. Sherlock might like a clean shaven face from time to time. He dragged Mary back out after checking to make sure the coast was clear.

John worked his way down, keeping a hand on his hostage. When he got to the kitchens he slipped into them and snatched up all the cooking oil he could find. He took it out saturated the kitchen and hall floor with it, dumping lamp oil on top of it until the room reeked of it. The next step was to empty some stolen gunpowder into a pile in the centre of the hallway. He headed for the doorway and pulled out his gun, took aim, and fired a shot into the powder. Sparks flew and the entire first floor of the lighthouse lit up like a kiln. John shoved Mary out the door first, tugging out her gag and using her as a shield. She screamed and the men outside pulled their guns up to avoid shooting the gravid woman. John continued to plow through them, shouting instructions about putting out the fire as he used the confusion to distract them from his true purpose. With a naked woman in the lead, and what looked like a rich one following after shouting about a fire, John wasn’t surprised that no one took notice of the fact he was a man. They were all scrambling to pry their eyes off of Mary’s tits and refocus them putting out the blaze. Something in the kitchen took that moment to explode and John chuckled as everyone was completely redirected to dealing with the problem at hand.

John made it down to his boat and shoved Mary in, wrapping a few blankets around her out of concern for her unborn child before shoving his privateer hat down over her head and stuffing the gag back in her mouth. He grabbed some provisions and his journal from the cutter and tossed them into a small caravel with Heinason’s flag flying. He quickly pushed Mary’s boat off and then scrambled into his own, pulling off the nice dress and tugging on a hat and jacket he’d found over his usual clothing. He used an oar from the cutter to push the ship in front of him, rigging the sails of the caravel to make it look as if he were chasing after it.

“He’s getting away!” John shouted, putting on a fake Dutch accent. He waved down several crewmen who bolted into his boat and immediately began hurriedly setting the sails. So busy were they that it took time for one to look at John’s face, and once he had John dispatched him quickly and silently, slitting his throat and shoving him overboard.

That was where John’s luck ran out, because the four other men who had been in the process of casting off after Mary now froze. John’s movements may have been slick, but the boat was only 60 feet long. It was easy to draw people’s eyes away from his face, but not away from having just killed a man right in front of them.

“Hello,” John smirked, holding up his bloodied blade and drawing his sword for good measure, “And that was with my left hand. Care to try my right?”

They didn’t have to know he was left-handed and the sword was currently in his less agile hand. They clearly didn’t need to know much of anything else at all. One jumped overboard and the others stared at him anxiously. John changed his bloodied dagger for his pistol and grinned.

“You can join your friend or I can pick you off one at a time like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Two more splashes and John was alone in a boat slowly drifting out to sea. John quickly adjusted the rigging and took off at a faster pace, abandoning his attempts to use Mary as cover. He saw one of the men swimming up to her boat and turned back to the rising sun, intending on using the glare for cover. She was behind him now in more ways than one.

It was a good twelve hours of hard sailing and occasional rowing- not that his arms did much good on a craft this big but he could manage to turn the ship into a direction they wouldn’t expect due to the wind- before John let himself scan the horizon and then collapse into a bunk down below. There was only one set of living quarters on the tiny caravel, containing three bunks on two walls and room to hang hammocks in between. Behind that was a small galley, the furnace of which heated the upper deck where a small bit of roofing covered the wheel area. Beneath that was the hold where supplies would be kept, but this one was practically empty. That gave it speed it normally wouldn’t have, but John would have to land for food and water- a risk he wasn’t sure he should take.

John could just _barely_ manage so large a ship on his own, but only by taking down the sails to let it drift during the few hours he let himself sleep during the day and sailing hard by night. He dared not let the sails fly by day. It was better it looked a ghost ship and risk being boarded than bombed from a distance due to the flags he flew. Yet those same flags might give him safe passage so long as he knew when to unfurl them. John kept a close eye out for Sherlock’s ships but he had no hope to find them. He did, however, know where Sherlock was heading. Without John to distract him he would go straight for Tortuga and defy his brother’s orders. His only choice was to get there as fast as possible and stop him from making a monster of himself.


	15. Chapter 15

They had drifted off the coast, just out of firing range of the land bound cannons, and watched as a few frantic ships launched at top speed within an hour of their warnings being posted. They fired a shot at each, sunk them, and circled around to watch for more while scooping up survivors from the water. Women and children were stowed in their small prison, the men were put through Sherlock’s deductive test, and those he deemed pirates were killed. Then there was a lull in the early morning hours as the late-night folk turned in until around mid-day. When they woke up there was some hustle and bustle, a few people walked the peers, an attempt at shooting at them was made, and then silence as they were ignored.

Then the first deaths occurred. They knew it had happened because the warning bells went off and people started panicking. A few more ships were launched and someone from the island tried to stop them from leaving. One shot was fired from land and a ship began to sink. Sherlock chuckled as he watched the madness from the forecastle through a scope. A bonfire flared up in what looked like it might be the main square, but it was hard to tell from this distance. They would be burning the bodies, but it wouldn’t stop the ‘plague’ from spreading. It was already inside of them, and the more water they touched and drank the sicker they would get. Soon all of Tortuga would be as silent as the grave; it’s houses, taverns, and houses of ill repute transformed into tombs.

It would be as cold and foul as he felt inside.

XXX

Three days later and the island were silent. The bonfire had gotten out of control and burnt up a huge section of the town, largely burning unhindered. After that it had been a matter of time. The flames were reduced to a miserable smoulder as the remnants of a few older, larger houses continued to flare up and then collapse down on themselves. Sherlock felt peace settling inside of him with the silent setting that Tortuga had become. The only question he had was how long would it last? How long before Sherlock needed more bloodshed to reach this state of calm?

_How long before John’s absence makes you mad again? Or was this always the inevitability?_

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice is soft as if he’s at a funeral. Well it might be. They’d been picking off the larger vessels all day. Women (those not pirates) and children (some of whom _had_ been pirates, but the crew insisted they not be killed) had been spared but the men had all been put to death and their belongings confiscated. A salvageable boat was waiting for the next tide to sail, manned only by women and children. Lestrade had wept openly when one woman had screamed abuse at them, accusing them of being everything from murderers to sirens. She held a limp bundle in her arms that Lestrade had avoided looking at. Sherlock had laughed and told them they should have heeded the warnings. Lestrade had puked over the side and Donovan had simply stared in obvious loathing.

“Take care, my Admiral,” She spoke softly, “You are nearing the edge of the world. Soon you will fall, and I fear the current will take us with you.”

“Fall?!” Sherlock laughed at her, “I’ve already fallen! Look how I’ve grown wings and flown free! My ignorant brother with his fat riches can’t hold me back now!”

“Nor can he save you,” Lestrade replied softly, “We’ll all hang for this.”

“As if I care!” Sherlock raged.

“Admiral!” A voice called from the crow’s nest, “A boat is approaching Tortuga! It’s one of Heinason’s caravels!”

“Sink it!” Sherlock shouted.

“What if it has Heinason on it?” Lestrade asked, “We could use him to find out where Moriarty is.”

“I already know where Moriarty is,” Sherlock replied scathingly, “Fool!”

“He’s lost his mind,” A voice whispered.

“Mind your tongue!” Sherlock shouted at them.

The men were aiming the cannon to sink the boat and Sherlock was watching with boredom plastered on his face. They would have finished it off then, but the angle was wrong so the caravel made it into port before they could kill them off. Sherlock pulled out his glass and held it to his eye. Then he froze, his gut wrenching as if a knife had been plunged into his bowels.

“Bring us about!” Sherlock shouted in horror, “Bring us about! Put us to shore!”

“We’re not going on that cursed place!” One man shouted, “We’ll be slaughtered by the ghosts of those poor people!”

Sherlock grabbed Donovan by one arm and shoved the glass into her hand with trembling hands. She peered out and stilled.

“ _Cattleprod?!_ ” Donovan gasped, “The hell iz ‘e doing there?! Bring us about! Move it! Wave de flags! Signal disease! Catch his eye! Fire the damn cannon if you have to! If he touches that water he’s a dead man!”

Sherlock was dizzy. All the blood seemed to have drained from his head and dropped into his feet. He sank to the deck and gripped the rails with white-tipped fingers as the world swam around him.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered by his side, “Breathe. We’ll get to him in time. We _have_ to.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock whimpered, “It’s all gone wrong. All wrong.”

XXX

Sherlock was the first on shore, and he went bolting through the city without responding to Lestrade’s calls. John should have seen their ship. He should have known and come to _them_. Unless he thought he was unwelcome or feared approaching with those flags, or perhaps he thought they were on the island? Either way, their attempts to signal him had been ignored. John had staggered onto the island as if drunk and headed straight for the middle of town. Perhaps he _was_ drunk?

“John!” Sherlock shouted, bolting around a bonfire and glancing at it worriedly, “John! John!!”

Lestrade bolted around the bonfire as well, tripping on a log- he hoped- and toppling to the ground. When he scrambled up and cleared the putrid mess of burning flesh he found Sherlock kneeling beside John. He was leaning against the well with his eyes shut. His lips were cracked and bleeding and his face was grey beneath the sunburn. The rest of the men who had jumped in the gig with them caught and stood there in shock. Another gig-full showed up while Sherlock dribbled fluids into John’s mouth. Donovan was on the boat, but Victor was kneeling by Sherlock’s side with his face tense with fear.

“Please tell me that’s an antidote?” Lestrade asked.

“He’s poisoned?” A few called out in horror. One called John by name, another by his nickname.

John’s eyes opened weakly and they all stared at him hopefully. He reached up to his neck and tugged at something shiny there. Sherlock helped him pull it free with his trembling fingers. It was a silver chain with three rings on it. John gripped the rings and weakly pulled at them, trying to break the chain. Sherlock helped him ease it open instead and John’s shaking hand fumbled with the ring, finally selecting one with tiny blue and green stones dotting a golden surface. It looked like the ocean at sunrise. John pressed it into Sherlock’s hands and gave him a weak smile before letting his eyes fall shut again. His breathing faltered, turning rasping, and Sherlock coaxed more fluids into his mouth. He drank it weakly but most dribbled down his chin.

“Please tell me that’s an antidote?” Lestrade pleaded once again.

Sherlock finally responded, “There is no antidote.”

“You didn’t make an antidote?!” Greg shouted, pulling at his hair, “Make him throw up or something!”

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Sherlock groaned, petting John’s hair and offering him more water. John’s eyes opened weakly again and then fell shut again. They were glazed and disoriented.

“What who wanted?” Lestrade asked.

“You waited and waited, watching my every move. Rarely reporting me. Letting me take out your ships. For this? So I could see what it was like when I killed your lover in front of you? Are you avenged, James?”

“Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?” Lestrade asked.

“He’s not talking to _you,_ ” The cook stated, stepping forward, “How long have you known, Sherly?”

“That you had infiltrated our ship? Ages. Who you were specifically? Now. Truth be told I suspected Victor. It seemed more like you to get as close to me as possible. You look different, Jim.”

“So sad,” The cook sighed, “And here I thought you were so clever. When you last saw me my voice had barely changed. Of _course_ I look different now.”

“He’s our rat?” Lestrade asked, unsheathing his sword.

“Spare me the theatrics,” The cook replied, glaring at Lestrade, “I’m hardly going anywhere, now am I? Even _I_ never thought our darling Captain would go so far. You were supposed to be on the side of the _angels_.”

Sherlock stood slowly, slipping his sword free, “I thought I was as well, but as it turns out I am far from being one of them. Lestrade, find a way to transport John. He will die at home, in my cabin. Not on this filthy blot on the map.”

“What about _him_?” Lestrade asked, glaring at Moriarty.

“Force some water down his throat and leave him.”

Three men stood up eagerly, ready to take their sadness over John out on Moriarty. He bolted but didn’t make it far. He was a man of intellect, not strength. He was easily overpowered and Sherlock watched silently as Lestrade and Victor carefully loaded John into a wheelbarrow that had hopefully _not_ been used to cart around dead bodies. They pinned Moriarty down and tried to force water down his throat, but they were so afraid of getting it on themselves they were doing a poor job of it. Moriarty barely had to stuggle. Finally Sherlock stepped forward, grabbed Moriarty by belt and hair, and tossed him arse over teakettle into the well. The man howled on the way down and then hit with a loud splash.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock stated, turning calmly and heading for the port.

Victor and Lestrade carefully manoeuvred John into the gig and sat down to row while Sherlock joined them and pulled John’s head into his lap, “John? John? Darling, answer me. Master is here, my pet. Speak to me, John. John?”

The ship rowed on and Sherlock continued to whisper to him over and again, coaxing water down his throat and massaging his hands hopefully. They carried him into Sherlock’s cabin where he stripped his lover and rubbed him down with oil. He continued to drip water into his mouth. Donovan returned eventually with the contents of the caravel he’d stolen. Some treasure, a dress, and a book that John had been journaling in.

“I can’t make heads nor tails of it,” Donovan told him, handing the book over, “It’s gibberish. There was no food and the water pot was long empty.”

Sherlock flipped it open, “Some form of shorthand, no doubt. I’ll decipher it. Perhaps it will tell us what befell him to leave him in this state. He’s much dehydrated. I’m still not certain if he drank the water or not, but I think perhaps he heeded the warnings. I will operate under that assumption until symptoms develop. Water with a bit of lemon and honey in it will help him recover quickly. Then some chicken broth if he keeps that down.”

“What are you telling _me_ for?” Donovan asked, hands on hir hips as ze let the sass show.

“Our cook is…”

“And you tought that you would just tell the nearest _woman_ to cook fer you?”

“Oh for gods’ sake, tell Lestrade then!”

“I’ll tell Anderson. My Phillip cooks like a king’s chef.”

“Fine!” Sherlock threw up his arms and then sat down to read over the book in front of him.

An hour later Lestrade slipped in to check on him, “How is he?”

“In and out of consciousness,” Sherlock replied fiddling with the ring on his finger, “From what I’ve read from his journal he was travelling with little water or food and even less sleep. He’s suffering from heat exhaustion, dehydration, starvation, lack of sleep, and several pulled muscles. He nearly worked himself to death to get back to us quickly. He writes here that he feared I would become a monster.”

“He was right,” Lestrade replied softly, “What will we do now? Run and lie? The people we ‘rescued’ and sent on their way believe they were fleeing a plague that we took advantage of, but there are those who will see through their tale.”

“I’m not as mad as Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, not answering Lestrade, “You’ll find this interesting. Apparently John took out Heinason’s fort.”

“He what now?”

“He attacked the fort. Singlehandedly. Pages are missing, they appear to be torn out. I think someone has tampered with this.”

“Maybe John ate them, the poor bastard.”

“Hmm, perhaps,” Sherlock mused, “At least now that we are certain what we are dealing with we have a way to treat him. He’ll take a while to recover, and he is still in danger of going into shock, but I think he’ll pull through.”

“He’s tough,” Lestrade agreed, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze.

“I didn’t think he was coming back,” Sherlock said softly, “I was prepared to hang for what I pulled at Tortuga. Mycroft is going to be furious, even if I _did_ make it look like a natural disaster. I may yet lose a great deal.”

“I’m behind you,” Lestrade told him firmly.

“We’ll see how closely you’re behind me when I’m headed for the gallows.”


	16. Chapter 16

John was getting steadily worse due to a wound on his shoulder, which was infected and they had no way to properly care for him. It had happened somewhere around the time of the missing papers in his journal according to how far along it was. They needed a doctor and urgently, but returning to land meant arrest. To top that off, they had to decide _where_ to go. Cuba and Florida were still largely under Spanish rule, and while they had a peace agreement in place at the moment it was still tentative and they were angry about breaches in the original trade agreement. Virginia was the nearest safe harbour, but John would not live that long without proper care. Sherlock knew all this and his order was clear. Return to the nearest Spanish harbour in Florida and weigh anchor. They got to the harbour at sunset and were met by a group of guards, but the order to arrest hadn’t come in yet. They were merely to be questioned as to the strange reports from those fleeing Tortuga. Sherlock went with them silently after informing them of a crewman’s need for urgent medical care. Lestrade, Donovan, and all three first mates were also pulled aside as the officers. The crew were ordered to stay on the ship as it remained under guard in the port. Three escaped into the water that night never to be seen again but the rest remained to be shipped back to England along with Sherlock and the officers.

XXX

Sherlock’s last words in John’s presence were softly spoken while stroking his hair, “He has family in Virginia. His parents and brother are there. Send him home with the contents of this box. He deserves to rest.”

John woke in his old bedroom after many days of fever and many weeks of miserable travel. He had recovered quickly in the Spanish settlement in Florida, but they hadn’t waited until he was completely well before shipping him straight to Virginia. He’d been shaky when he’d arrived and his mother had fretted and put him straight to bed. She told him she barely recognized him, that even his eyes looked different. Then she told his father and brother to stay out of his room.

The reason why was clear. John had left to seek out Mary and returned without her. His brother and father were sure to want to know why but his mother was tenderhearted enough to avoid asking such a question until after he was ready to talk. John for one didn’t want to see his brother. The bastard was always making him miserable. His _father_ he would have liked to see, but he was afraid to face him. After all he’d heard about the evils of sodomy here lay his son, the sodomite. Add to that the fact the bed was too still and John was left all but weeping for the ocean once more.

_If it weren’t for this damn gunshot wound getting infected I would have been aware enough to beg Sherlock not to leave me behind._

John pulled the bandages back and studied his wound. The herbal packing around the newly opened wound was helping to keep the infection and swelling down. John had been changing it daily himself and would continue to do so. There was no need to bother his parents. As for the wound itself, he had been the one to treat it the first time around, but he’d had nothing to properly sanitize I with. He’d boiled some ocean water and done what he could with that. It had burned horrifically despite being cool enough to place on his wound and the edges had turned white. He’d known then he was in trouble, but he’d had no way to deal with it. He’d been in a hurry to get to Sherlock. Now he just had to hope that Sherlock had found his message despite it not being in plain sight.

XXX

“You’ve made a grievous error, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated coldly, his eyes narrowed in anger, “What am I to do with you?”

“What you always do. Put me further away from you. Perhaps the colonies will do?”

“Don’t be smart,” Mycroft frowned, “We both know why you want to go _there_. He can’t help you now, Sherlock. I can’t even help you.”

“What are you going on about?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed angrily.

“There’s evidence against you, dear brother. It was out in full long before you ever pulled into Tortuga. I even attempted to send them a warning, but it apparently didn’t get through. Your crew- or rather your former crew- turned you in, claiming madness had fallen over you and driven you to such behaviour. They begged me to stop you.”

“I see,” Sherlock frowned, “Then we’ll be trying to lock me up in a ward for the rest of my life? I won’t have it.”

“I’m afraid not, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “Their pleas are useless without the object of your madness, and I’m afraid he refused to remain here to testify on your behalf.”

“John?” Sherlock asked, eyes widening.

“You didn’t know? Did he not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Sherlock demanded.

“That I needed him to testify that he had manipulated, coerced, and driven you mad. I believe there was some tentative thought on claiming he was a demon as well, seeing as how you were apparently committing the crime of _sodomy_ with him,” Mycroft frowned, “Honestly, what _were_ you thinking?”

“I love him,” Sherlock stated.

Mycroft looked positively gobsmacked, and in other circumstances it would have been a delightful look on his face. In this instance it was just mildly amusing, seeing as how Sherlock was locked in a damp, chilly prison cell in London on his way to the gallows. Mycroft, his plump and _very_ proper brother, was standing on the other side of the bars holding a scented handkerchief over his nose to ward of the stench permeating from every surface including Sherlock’s much abused flesh.

“I need you to do something for me, brother,” Sherlock stated softly, “John had papers missing from his journal. I need you to find them.”

“What is your obsession with this man?!” Mycroft exclaimed.

“He wouldn’t have torn them out if they weren’t important. I’m certain he meant to use them to save my life. I left him his treasure- and I searched that thoroughly- but I returned with a few items that I hadn’t had time to search before they arrested me in Florida. Examine them carefully.”

Mycroft sighed, looking much put upon as he rolled his eyes. He turned and headed for the door, stopping with his hand in the air, poised to knock for the guard.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock asked distractedly.

“Losing you…” Mycroft hesitated, and then continued with a stronger voice, ”Losing you is going to break my heart.”

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” Sherlock asked, “When you’ve never actually _been_ in my life?”

“I’ve been more involved than you could ever imagine,” Mycroft stated, then rapped on the door and quickly left.

XXX

Mycroft was pale and drawn as he sat staring at the packet of papers in front of him. He’d found them lining the fancy dress that his brother had returned with, puffing it out like a Primadonna’s gown. Inside of it was a detailed account of things that would alter the course of the very Empire itself. He could deal with this all in silence, which would allow Mycroft to save face, but turning it in would mean Sherlock’s freedom.

_My reputation for my brother’s life?_


	17. Chapter 17

DAY 1

My name is John H. Watson, MD of the privateer ship _Tobias Redbeard_ and lover/pet of Admiral W. Sherlock Holmes. My life started out simple and planned out. I was to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a doctor like my brother had before me. I was to marry the lovely farm girl I’d grown up with. Then everything went to hell. My brother fell to drink and gambled away his inheritance before our father could grace the grave. Then lovely Mary Morstan vanished in the night, snatched up by another man who her father approved of more than I. Or so I thought. Upon chasing after her I discovered that it was _she_ who wished to leave me. Apparently she knew what I had been too ashamed to admit, that the fairer sex had no sway over me.

I am a sodomite, and a privateer, and a doctor, and a killer. I am cold and unfeeling. I am warm and passionate. I am many things that my father would faint at hearing today. I can only now begin to contemplate the life that I have led and envision my future.

Yet I have made a grievous error. Some days ago- I’ve lost count, which is why I’ve started this journal- I abandoned my Lord, Admiral, and beloved in order to finish my pursuit of Mary Of the Lemon Scent, only to find that she was Mary the Unfaithful. I would have forgiven that, but she could not forgive me my own indiscretions. I regret it not at all. Though I am sorry for the loss of my childhood friend, she was quite right in her assumptions. I could never have loved her wholly. It would have been a lie. My love wears dark curls not white. He stands tall, not crushed beneath a corset. He has a firm spear rather than a soft… whatever the hell women have. I have a working knowledge of them but no interest. That is midwife territory.

I now go to reclaim what I have lost… or rather to supplicate myself before the man who I do not deserve. Perhaps I can save him as he has saved me. I can only hope to be proven worthy.

DAY 2

Lots of water.

DAY 3

Fucking rain.

DAY 4

Stopped for supplies. I hate everything.

DAY 5

Had a wank. Feel a bit better, yet I also feel guilty for climaxing without Sherlock’s permission. Sherlock. It occurs to me that is only the second time I have written his name in this book. Sherlock. I could write it a thousand times and it would not be enough, though I would laugh at myself for sounding like a giddy schoolboy. He makes me foolish like that.

I can’t help but think of a particularly wonderful moment we had together, one that inspired this mornings release. We’d just left a port and hit a rather dull spot. No wind to speak of. Most of the crew got pretty damn cranky and Sherlock was the leader of the grump. Lestrade refused to come over to calm him down and Sal just laughed when I pleaded with her for assistance and then told me to get him off. 

I tried to ask him to talk in private, being shy about our relationship still, but he was snarly and being purposefully obtuse. I tried to hint that I was in the mood by dropping things and then picking them up suggestively, but all that got me was teased by the crew. One of them goosed me with a mop handle and Sherlock laughed along with them. The bastard.

Then it hit me. Sherlock wasn’t _normal_. He wasn’t the sort of bloke who was turned on by a glimpse of ankle or a coy smile. So I fetched a bit of rope, put it around my neck like a collar and leash, and walked up to him where he was giving poor Trevor a talking to. I simply waited until his hand went out in a gesture and tossed the rope across his wrist. He froze. He just stared at the rope swinging as it lay across his arm like a frightened snake. ‘You have the helm,’ he says to no one in particular. Then he grabs the leash and tugs me down towards our cabin. We didn’t make it there. He pinned me up against the wall, tugged both our trousers and hose down, and rubbed himself off against my hip. Turns out he needed to get off _bad_.

Then he turns things around on me. He tells me that I’m not allowed to get off without his permission. ‘You’re mine and it’s time to prove it,’ he says. Then he unwinds some rope so he has a real thin bit of it. He wraps the string around my bits like a sort of harness for a horse with my cockstand as the head. It went around my waist, under my bollocks, and then looped around the base of my willy where he tied it in a bow. It was very loose. ‘I’ve made it so if you get an erection it will bother you, but not cut off your blood flow,’ he tells me, ‘this will help remind you that I and only I am allowed to bring you to orgasm. You will wear this always. Wash with it. Only when I remove it can you climax.’

I was so turned on by his words that I throbbed for nearly an hour, even while working on deck to clean things up just to keep busy. I was starting to wonder if it _was_ keeping me from going down, but it turned out just the idea of him controlling my orgasm was the ticket.      

Day 6

Now that I’ve started reliving my life with my Master I’m drowning in thoughts of him. I can relive our first moments together time and again, but they aren’t nearly as sweet as the moments in the dark thereafter. Sherlock and I didn’t always share a shift, so I would often slip into his cabin when I knew he was restless and unable to sleep during the times I had no patients. I would walk in and find my lover fatigued but unable to let sleep claim him. He wouldn’t speak at times like this. It was as if his emotions stole his deep, smooth voice right out of his satiny mouth. This did not mean that he was any less the one in control. I still ebbed to his flow, he ever the moon and I the ocean he stared down at. I could spend ages worshiping him and not have enough.

During these times of restless silence I would have to guess at his needs. I made the mistake once of thinking sex was the solution. He took one look at my hand groping his crotch like a halfpenny whore and threw me out on my arse. Foolish man that I am to think another man could only be soothed by climax! Am I not a doctor? Do I not know that there are other things a man craves from a woman? Or in this case a man?

I wasn’t able to woo my way back into his chambers that night, and the guilt of having been forced to abandon him to his misery alone was distressing enough that I lost sleep as well. This time he was the one to enter and comfort me, pulling me into his arms and pressing my head to his chest. I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, soothed by the sway of the ship like the gentling of a loving mother. I understood then that there would be times when he simply needed my company, or to be held, or to be pampered in a way that had nothing to do with sexual release.

Day 9

Rain. I stood in it and let it wash me, running my hands over my body and shaking with the cold. Sherlock would have loved to see this. He loved the sight of me vulnerable, and that I’m shaking with cold and my private parts have practically crawled inside of me would have driven him wild. He would have teased them, cupping them until they were warm enough to emerge and then exposing them to the chill to watch them flee. The thought of this aroused me until I was shivering and stroking myself off in the cold water. I was too frozen to climax, but it was a good feeling nonetheless. Sherlock would often leave me unfulfilled so that he could satisfy me later. It made me angry each and every time, but when he finally took me in hand or mouth I would come hard enough to scream, lights flashing behind my eyes and blood roaring in my ears. He was my London. My England. My entire world. How could I have been so blind to leave him?

Day 12

Today was a long, cold day and I write now by the light of a full moon so bright that it makes me miss the moonbeam of his gaze. There was once a night like this on the ship in which he decided he wanted to enjoy me in private. He ordered the crew off the deck after having them furl the sails, tied down the wheel, laid out a blanket, and sat on the deck with me for hours.

Well. I say he sat _with_ me. It was more like he sat _on_ me. Sherlock had decided I was to be his furniture. We shifted position numerous times. First I was on hands and knees while he sat on my hips and stared up at the stars. Then he had me lay on my back and he laid across me with his back arched across my groin. He pointed out constellations and told me how to navigate by the stars. I had to really restrain myself to not hump his back, but he snapped that riding crop over my thing whenever I did. He always reduced me to a whimpering pile of hormones.

Then he had me kneel for him and suck him off while he fucked my face. I was so proud when we were through because I’d managed to relax my throat enough to let him thoroughly take me. He was so wrecked after he came that he just sank down and I had to break position and pull him in to straddle my thighs. He wrapped his arms around me so tightly and laid his head on my chest. I stayed that way long after my feet had fallen asleep, just holding him and breathing in his scent. My erection wilted and I can’t recall but I think I went without that night. Whichever it was, just holding him against me was so perfect and beautiful that my throat feels tight just thinking of it. I miss my lord.

Day 15

I feel like I’ve glossed over the part where Sherlock beats me senseless. That sounds awful. Let me try again. I feel like I’ve glossed over the part where Sherlock beats me until I come untouched while screaming his name and comparing him to God.

There was this insane moment where he blindfolded me and tied me up in my sex swing. I thought it would be more of the same. The crop. Maybe a discarded pole from an oar he’d used on me once that had left me bruised for near a month. No, he had an _entirely_ new plan for me. He restrained my arms and left me face down. Then he brought something cold and sharp to the back of my neck and slowly dragged it down my spine. My breath caught. It was a _knife_. He was running a blade along my body, and knowing Sherlock it was razor sharp! ‘Sherlock’, I said, ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea. Especially on a boat that, you know, rocks.’ He replied, ‘Did I tell you that you could speak?’ So I shut my mouth and let him do what he pleased with me. I was always doing that. Trusting him when I knew full well I shouldn’t.

Sherlock ran the blade across my shoulders, then down along my side. I had to hold my breath because the touch was so light it was almost ticklish and I was afraid of what would happen if I jarred his hand. Then he moved it across my lower back in a motion that drew him directly over where my trousers tied. It had a peculiar affect on me and I gasped as my cock began to thicken. From that moment on every nerve in my body was alive. Every touch of the blade was a river of fire across my flesh. My fear vanished as I arched into the drag across my trembling skin. He teased me with it for over an hour, leaving me gasping and panting, my cock weeping a puddle on the floor… then he pressed harder. I gasped and stilled as he pressed hard and I could feel something dripping down my sides. I knew I should be as still as possible but the fact he was slicing me open had me losing all control. I was hyperventilating. My breath came in frantic pants and I was wheezing with each one. I could hear him behind me, laughing darkly as he moved the blade across my lower back again, and damn him to the ninth hell if I didn’t let lose a scream and then come spectacularly across the floor. My vision went white, I was drooling, sobbing, and shaking horribly. I had no idea how bad the damage was or if I would even be able to have it cared for since I was the only doctor on board.

Then Sherlock spoke, ‘Oh, look at you. So perfect. So beautiful. I can’t ruin this. You must stay just how you are until it dries. Then I will have Cap’n Sal in here. He’ll use his superior skills with paints to capture this moment forever. Do you need anything, my pet? Water?’

His voice was so captivated, almost worshipful, his tone one of mystification and admiration. He almost sounded as if he were on the cusp of orgasm himself.

‘How… how bad is it?’ I asked him, wishing I were mentally stable enough to scream at him about what he’d just done instead of wondering what it looked like and how he was so captivated by it.

‘It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Oh, but I’m _aching_ ,’ Sherlock purred, ‘Perhaps your mouth…?’

Sherlock came around me and lifted my head, his motions so careful so as not to muss up the mess he’d left of the flesh on my back. He pressed his cock into me and a few slow thrusts against my scream-raw throat had him spilling himself. He sobbed out his release, something that I had never heard. I was mystified. Alarmed. Overwhelmed. In love.

‘Sherlock,’ I breathed as he slipped away from me, ‘My Lord.’

‘My pet,’ He purred, and kissed my lips with such delicacy that I shivered. I was mourning the damage done to my body, but only because I feared that the time I had to spend healing would keep me from his bed.

Then he slipped off my blindfold and I stared up at him in confusion. His face was flushed and his eyes were glassy as if he’d seen a siren. The part of me that wasn’t drowning in those eyes that imitated the northern lights was lost in the black smudges that marred his face. His fingertips were soaked in it. Behind his ear was…  a quill? A quill saturated in black ink.

‘Sherlock…’ I asked, ‘Did you write on me?’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock smiled, giving me a positively evil grin, ‘What did you think that was? A blade?’

He had to snap the cane across my backside to stop me thrashing and ruining his ‘painting’. He was quite cross, but not nearly as outraged as I was. I cursed until I ran out of air and then stayed still long enough for Cap’n Sal to paint my likeness for him. When I was finally shown the painting I had to admit that the play of red from scratches and black from ink creating a strange pattern across my back was quite fetching. I told him I’d never forgive him for his trick, but I’m sure he knew I didn’t mean it. At least I hope so.

Day 17

I encountered a nasty storm and thought it blew me off course, but a glimpse of the stars showed it had aided in my journey. I shall reach Sherlock in a matter of days. Sadly I am low on everything and must follow some gulls to land to restock my supplies lest I perish before reaching him.

Day 19

I’ve left the isle where I restocked my food and water. I just have to hope it wasn’t a testing site for Sherlock’s madness. I’ve been measuring on the map and if this wind keeps up I’ll get to Tortuga in two days time. With any luck I’ll make it before he kills anyone, but without knowing his timetable it’s entirely possible that I’ll make it there too late or early.

Day 20

Some posh bastard with a fancy waistcoat and red wig with an attitude the size of the bloody Pacific has waylaid me. He’s decided that I can’t go to Tortuga because _I’m_ the reason Sherlock’s gone mad! Apparently he gets to decide that because he’s spent an unusually enormous amount of time with his nose deep inside the King’s arsecrack.

He’s forced me to stay at the palace.

Even as I write that it sounds a bit off.

Let me try again.

I’m being held hostage at an enormous castle with servants, fantastic food, more wine than a healthy man should consume, and three maids who keep offering me sex.

Still sounds off.

No, that’s about accurate.

Anyway, I’m trapped here and the ponce won’t let me go. I’ve gotten desperate enough to offer to give him the buggering he so sorely needs, but apparently he’s not into sodomy. The prick.

Day 21

The posh bastard’s name is Mycroft. He’s Sherlock’s brother. This explains Sherlock’s homicidal tendencies completely.

 

Day 23

I’m going to kill him.

And rape his narrow eye sockets afterwards.

Later-

Mycroft has broken me. I’m disgusted by this fact, but it’s the honest truth. Sherlock’s (former) shipmates have turned on him and reported that he’s going on a murdering spree. He’s given me the option to step in and confess to serious crimes, including forcing Sherlock to act this way. It will save him but condemn me. I’m going to be burned at the stake. When I made the promise I’m ashamed to say I wept, but as I write this I’m resolved and have made peace with the situation. I’ve never had anything beautiful in my life before that was truly mine, it only makes sense that I die that way as well. At least I was his for a time.

Later, later-

Williamson

Archibald

Spanish Main

Meriwether

Gloria Scott

 

They intend to assassinate the king, but not by actually killing him. They plan to destroy his reputation until the people revolt, but they’ll be doing it by using him as a pawn. They’ve already begun. Apparently they had him sign the plans to build a well in an impoverished town. The well plans were poorly constructed and the well has since become fouled by refuse and poisoned half the town!

They referenced the _Gloria_ more than once and that worried me. I hope Lestrade and Hooper are okay.

Apparently the next item on the agenda is to tear down a perfectly good bridge and build a shite one that will fall apart. Probably while a supply wagon is crossing over it since it’s right outside a market. I didn’t catch the name of the town. They were laughing too hard.

They’re based in Tortuga. Magnus Heinason was a red herring. Even Moriarty doesn’t know. He’s involved in this as well but there’s another player, but they haven’t named him or her. Hopefully Sherlock DOES kill off most of the town or we’re in serious trouble. The end game is to raze the palace to the ground during a revolt and blame the people on it!

To explain, I’ve been practicing escaping- more for fun and study than because I actually think I can get out- and it turns out that I _can_ get out. And stumble right into a nest of plotting assassins in true John Watson fashion. I spent the time sketching their faces and writing down any names I overheard. Their plot seems pretty convoluted but above is what I understood.

I need to get to Sherlock immediately. They’ve used his previous crew to manipulate Mycroft and I. He’s so focused on saving Sherlock’s arse that he can’t see what’s happening right here in England! I’ll warn him, bring him in to stop this madness, and if saving the crown isn’t enough then I’ll testify that I’m the daemon he needs to be free of prosecution. I would die ten times for him.

Day 23

I’ve had a hell of a time getting free of the city. I managed to get a riverboat ride up the Thames in exchange for some labour. Once I make it to the harbour I’ll steal a boat and head for Tortuga at top speed.

Later-

Damn him to hell, fucking Mycroft! I made it to the harbour and found the boat I stole from Heinason. Since I’m already familiar with it and have rigged it to sail alone I decided to re-steal it. It looked like my things were still on it, but he’d left everything on board except for food and water! Just empty fucking barrels and crates! I’ve only got what’s on my hip! To top it off they nearly caught me as I was casting off and I’ve been sodding shot. I can’t take the time to stop anywhere. I’m going to have to make due without food. I’ll sift the water to get the salt out but I’m no chemist like Sherlock and I don’t have his kit even if I was. Hopefully I’ll be alive when I get there.

Day 24

It’s occurred to me that I may be chased down. I will hide these pages somewhere that Sherlock is sure to look for them. The remainder of my journal I’ll hide elsewhere as the contents could be used against Sherlock. It disgusts me that in this day and age love should be restricted by gender, but then again I suppose Sal would say that gender shouldn’t predetermine anything. Perhaps some day we’ll live in a world where sodomy is no longer a crime and someone like Sherlock will be cherished instead of driven away to a world where laws are flexible and evil can take root in his heart. Until that day comes I will forever be his conscience… assuming I can ever get back to my beloved.

 

Day 29

I’ve begun to hallucinate. I swear I saw a beautiful woman standing naked on the bow of my ship with only a man’s smoking jacket around her fair torso, but that is utter madness. My hands shake. I believe that I’ve been heading towards Haiti with a favourable wind, but now I’m uncertain. It must be the water. At least I’ve caught fish to eat but aside from one rainstorm that blessed me with fresh water for a few days I’ve been trying to boil the salt water and drink it. I’m to the point I can’t taste salt anymore. My eyes blur and I pissed brown yesterday.

Day 34

_On this day my beloved pet John Watson reached Tortuga and was found barely conscious on the island. He had tried to get to the well to get fresh water, but did not drink. I assume he saw the signs warning of illness or perhaps heeded the signs of illness around him. I forgive him for everything. I love him unconditionally. If only I had the missing pages perhaps I could understand more of what has happened. What secret was I pulled from him too soon to understand? Until they reappear I will ready myself for the gallows._


	18. Chapter 18

Mycroft paced his chambers anxiously until it became obvious that delaying his decision was not going to make it any easier. He walked into the next set of rooms, his private study, and sat down at his desk to do what he had known his brother would force him to do someday.

_My Beloved King,_

_It is upon this sad day that I do tender my resignation…_

Mycroft folded up his lengthy two page letter full of apologies and ass kissing, added in the missing pages of John’s journal, and sealed it with his signet ring. Then he removed the ring and placed it down on the table. He was about to become what disgusted and enraged him the most, but he was going to do it in order to protect his king, country, and little brother.

 _Heaven help us all_ , Mycroft whispered, removing the cross from around his neck as well. He pressed a kiss to it and laid it over the envelope. Then he stood and went to his closet, changing into a very old pair of clothing that he had not worn since he had pulled his family name up from ‘country squire’ to the high title it now retained. His wig he left on the stand by his mirror along with his make up. He wouldn’t need either where he was going. Mycroft donned his most comfortable and efficient shoes, armed himself with two pistols and a sword, and headed down to the dungeons with a forged paper in hand.

“Good day,” Mycroft stated, squinting one eye and hoping his lack of makeup was enough of a disguise, “Sargeant McCain reporting. I’m here for the prisoner… er…”

He squinted at his orders and the guard on the other side got disgusted enough to pull them from his hand and glance them over, “Holmes. He’s that way. Second on the left.”

The man folded up the missive and stuck it inside his jacket, and Mycroft continued down the steps into the lower levels. The smell was foul and the layer of rushes and straw did little to lessen it. If anything it just added a mouldy layer to the atmosphere. Sherlock was curled up on a mat staring off at the far wall with a look of miserable acceptance on his face. His hanging was in less than three hours.

Mycroft rapped on the bar, “Up, you dog! Time to swing.”

Sherlock’s eyes moved slowly to Mycroft and he saw just the barest flutter of a smile. The younger man pried himself up off the ground with a groan of pain. He’d been flogged the day before and it was likely paining him greatly. He limped forward and Mycroft unlocked the door and swung it open. He pulled Sherlock along by one arm as the man shuffled with his chained hands and feet clinking loudly in the darkened corridors. Mycroft waited until they got out to the he reached the courtyard with the gallows in sight before he let himself speak softly.

“The stables. To the right.”

“I know where they are,” Sherlock grumbled, which was actually a surprise since he hadn’t set foot in the castle since he was a three-year old terror.

They moved in that direction and once they were hidden amongst the scent of horse and hay Mycroft removed his bonds. He led his younger brother over to the horse he intended to steal and helped him mount it without bothering with tack. Speed was important. Besides, they both knew how to ride bareback as easily as with a saddle. Mycroft led Sherlock’s horse out of the stall and grabbed their supplies, tossing the rucksack over his shoulder. He handed Sherlock a cloak which the man threw over his shoulder and pulling up the cowl to hide his face. Mycroft then mounted his own horse and spurred his horse on ahead of Sherlock’s. Sherlock let Mycroft lead them out of the gates with only a single call for identification before they were facing freedom.

They rode on without halting, working the horses up to a froth, for a solid two hours. When they reached the cabin with a twinkling lantern in the window Mycroft slowed them down to a trot until he reined them in. He leaned down and rapped on the door with his riding crop, directing the horse to the side with the barest pressure on his knees. Lestrade stepped out of the cabin and gave them both a cautious glance.

“Take the horses to the barn. Give them some attention. We’re nearly ready here.”

“I hope ‘nearly’ means ‘now’,” Mycroft snarled.

“Keep your wig- ah, I see you’ve left it behind!” Lestrade laughed, “Well then, keep your trousers on. We’ll be ready in a mo.”

Sherlock groaned on his way down from the horse, and then staggered over to the trough and splashed water across his face before leaning down to swallow the water greedily.

“Are you mad?” Mycroft scoffed, “That’s foul!”

“It’s this or nothing,” Sherlock replied miserably, “Unless you’ll have me draw from the well?”

“No, we can’t risk you being seen.”

“I thought not.”

“However, I _do_ have water with me had you thought to _ask_.”

Sherlock scoffed, “I suggest you not drink it. Nor anything you brought with you. You think there will be no retribution for what I’ve done? Your supplies are likely poisoned. Why else would anyone help you escape with me?”

Mycroft paled and then poured the water into his hand to study it. He could see nothing wrong, but he offered it to a nearby goat just in case. He then went about watering and brushing down their horses. He shuddered in horror when the goat dropped dead with an agonized bleat. Sherlock said nothing as Mycroft disposed of the supplies they’d brought with them. At least the little beast wasn’t going to gloat.

Lestrade joined them a moment later with Hooper and a wretched looking Donovan in tow. Donovan had been set for the gallows a week ago but escaped under hir own power. Anderson was in the wind but he’d likely show up at some point in time once he found out that Donovan was free and sailing again. He’d meet them at a port and they’d be on the lookout for him. Lestrade had been given a pass, but that was only because he was white and not _technically_ in charge.

Sherlock gave them all a critical look as he waited for Mycroft to outline his plan. Instead the man handed Sherlock a map, which he unfurled and smirked at.

“Well,” Sherlock chuckled, “Heave ho.”

An hour later and they were boarding the Tobias Redbeard where it had been switched to a different dock during the new moon. They swarmed it and met up with the remnants of the crew who were still loyal to the former Admiral Holmes. They pulled to and the ship was soon slipping dock as silently as possible, their movements at a crawl. When they reached the point where they could pull to port they tightened the sails and put out full ahead. They were almost free when someone spotted them and shouts broke out. A few moments later and the cannons were going off. They were the land bound sort and could easily blow them to bits at twice the distance of ship-mounted canons.

Sherlock took the helm and began to manoeuvre them while shouting instructions to the crew. They swerved through the water in broad movements, making sure not to loop back in to the path of the fire. By the time the shore crew realized they were evading and tried to change their fire pattern they were nearly out of range. Sherlock put on a burst of speed, by sending crew down to row and managed to get out before they could lay accurate fire. They barely made it out in time and then it was all about speed. Sherlock hollered in relief and pride, and the crew took up the shouts. They were flying along at top speed, but their top speed was nothing compared to what the ships in the armada could accomplish. Normally their success depended on power, not speed, so they had to distance themselves before the armada was launched. Hours they flew on the heads of the waves, until Sherlock felt the time was right and sharply altered their course.

“To the Americas!” Sherlock shouted.

“Americas!” The crew echoed heartily.

The sky chose that moment to open up on them, rain crashing down. Sherlock was unflustered though his brother sputtered and fled for the inner parts of the ship. Instead he stripped off his soiled and filthy clothing, casting them overboard and raising his voice to challenge the thunder that shook the ship.

[“ _Mama we all go to hell,_ ”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRts3ZUYD8g) Sherlock sang out, “ _Mama we all go to hell! I’m writing this letter, and wishing you well, Mama, we all go to hell!”_

The words were familiar enough to the crew that they soon joined him, wailing and moaning with the sea as they continued forward undaunted by weather or gods. The end of the song came about too early for Sherlock who had only scrubbed his flesh once, but he still sang it with his crew while letting the soap wash from his body in the lashing rivulets of rain.

 _We're damned after all._  
_Through fortune and flame we fall._  
 _And if you can stay then I'll show you the way,_  
 _To return from the ashes you call._

 _We all carry on (We all carry on)_  
_When our brothers in arms are gone (When our brothers in arms are gone)_  
 _So raise your glass high_  
 _For tomorrow we die,_  
 _And return from the ashes you call._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have had my surgery and return a new enby. Thank you all for your support through a difficult time.

John had rather expected his reputation to be destroyed by his attempt to get Mary back, but since no one knew what had truly happened he returned sickly and embarrassed. His father nursed him back to health without comment. His mother asked him what happened once he was able to sit up and eat on his own. John wasn’t ready to face it. He broke down and wept, his mother sat on the edge of his bed and wrapped him up in her arms as if he were a child again. John cried himself out over the next few days. He mourned his lost future. He mourned the love he’d left behind. He mourned Sherlock himself, because in all likelihood his captain was dead.

Then he dropped into routine. John once again took over the main aspects of his father’s business. While he’d been away his brother had pulled a sort of Prodigal Son and returned with money to help the father John had abandoned in his quest for Mary. Now John was the shamed one and he found he cared less and less about their impression of him. He kept working hard to keep people healthy and when a few pleaded that they couldn’t pay he helped them in secret. His methods got out and a young woman approached him in church with a whisper of irregularity in her cycle. John knew nothing of abortion, but he knew of others who did and contacted them for her. They were ready to charge her the woman’s entire dowry. John paid them what little he had for a rough lesson and returned to her with that knowledge and a warning that she might not survive. She lived and in gratitude offered to marry John. This was not the first woman to recognize his disinterest in the female form, but John couldn’t tie himself to her. He didn’t want to live more of a lie than he already had. He sent her away with a fond smile and a fresh start. More came. Most lived. John perfected the method and found ways to help the women prevent it based on the stories Donovan had told him.

Eventually John’s father found out what he was doing and threatened him under no uncertain terms. He would cease his behaviour or he would be cast from their home. John found himself laughing bitterly at his father’s reproach. Once being an outcast would have terrified him. Once being forced to rely on his less-than-capable self for survival had been impossible. Now it was ridiculous to assume that he needed _them_. John packed up what little he owned, collected an inheritance/fee from his father despite the man’s protests, and left with a sack full of his possessions and a firm stance. He walked into an unclaimed portion of the woods, chopped down a few trees with a borrowed axe, and began to build.

His first attempt at shelter ended as laughably as his father’s attempts to keep him and he slept in the rain that night with his possessions carefully wrapped in leaves beneath a cache to protect them from moisture. John learned from his mistakes. He rebuilt and this time his work was good. It would need filling by winter, but it kept out the rain and he was able to line the floor with rushes until he collected enough river stones and sand to make a proper floor. John’s work continued in that shelter and eventually one of the women he cared for simply remained on. She lived in a corner of his home in a hammock she made herself and gave him no trouble and a bit of coin. It was a while before John caught on that he was her pimp, but by then it was simply amusing to him. Others moved in and John cared for their bodies and collected what they could spare him. When times were good he celebrated with a nice meal for all of them. It was almost domestic, in an illicit and shocking way. He had more patients than his father and wasn’t the least bit shocked- or indiscrete- when the village Reverend brought his daughter in for John’s ‘special’ services. He sat her down once she had recovered and taught her how to avoid needing his help again and sent her on her way with tea and a turtle shell. He made his own girls special sleaves out of sheep intestines that they swore by, but those were difficult to make so he reserved them for those who paid him for their upkeep. His home was crowded but for a man who had shared a boat with many it was hardly uncomfortable, even when the ladies synced up an took their frustrations out on him. John shamelessly whipped one who dared to slap him in a strop, but other than that there was general happiness in his home. Relief. A lack of judgement or abuse.

The town spat on them when they walked in the streets. Some stalls in market refused to serve them. John shamelessly stole what he needed if it was refused him legally, but he was good at what he did. They had no proof against him. When rumours of witchcraft started up he began to genuinely fear for their future, but by then, as His Lordship would have it, a boat was seen on the horizon and John knew he was saved.

 _Bless his impeccable timing_.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock knelt in the fore of the rowboat as they took to the docks. The shallows hadn’t allowed them to dock completely without being grounded a heavy boat at such a small pier. Sherlock stood easily on the side of the boat with his usual catlike grace and stepped off onto the lower dock meant for fishmen to disembark in skiffs. He strode up the steps and down the longdock with a wide smile to his face. There he stopped. His cannons could reach further, but he wasn’t about to risk it. These were uncivilized people and might open fire before engaging in dialogue. Sherlock smiled widely at the people hurrying down to see him. In quick order he deduced the leaders on their way towards him.

A scholar, likely the teacher for their tiny school. A Protestant reverend. A Catholic priest. A man who had too much to drink far too often and was therefore a politician.

Sherlock smirked as they all reached the dock at various times and stood there looking awkward while waiting for the last to arrive. When the four were finally situated in front of him the drunkard politician was the first to speak up, and that said a lot about what kind of town they were. Sherlock normally found the religious leader to be the one who spoke, but with a town divided between Protestant and Catholic it was likely the two spent too much time fighting to actually create a unified structure in the town.

“What news from England?” The drunkard asked.

“England?” Sherlock wondered, glancing around them, “Ah, England. Yes. Well, last I heard the king was in terrible trouble and I was terminated.”

“Terminated?”

“Yes. Terminated. You know, discharged. Sacked. Dismissed. Our arrangement was annulled and otherwise discontinued. In other words,” Sherlock removed both pistols from their sheaths, “I am no longer a privateer and my career as a pirate has been rather dull so far.”

The men gathered behind the leaders made various sounds of fear and shock, several took steps back, and the four town leaders took on expressions varying from consternation to horror. The consternation came from the priest.

“We are a poor settlement,” The teacher spoke up.

“Good man, straight to business,” Sherlock agreed, “Sadly, I don’t care. You see, I’m here for one treasure and one treasure only; a man by the name of John Watson. So fetch him if you would. Spit spot. Faster you go the faster you’re back, and the condition he’s in will determine your fate.”

“You’re here for the witch?” The priest stated.

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock sighed, “Witches are women, John is a _doctor_. Even if he were to practice magic- which he would likely laugh at the very idea of- that would make him a _warlock_. Honestly, you religious types are _so_ unimaginative.”

“You are going to _burn in hell!_ ” The priest snarled.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sherlock stated, cocking the flint and levelling the weapon at his head, “I’ve murdered more than enough to guarantee my place in hell, your blood will only bother me if it splatters my boots and _I am not wearing any today_.”

“John Watson, you said?” The reverend uttered, his voice shaking a bit.

“Bless you, you’re trying to protect him,” Sherlock lowered his weapon and gave the man an amused smile, “Yes, John Watson.”

“He’s living up in the woods,” The man stated, “I’ll send someone to fetch him. I suppose you’re interested in his… commerce?”

“No, we’re all fit and healthy,” Sherlock replied, “I’m interested in his person.”

Someone snickered behind Sherlock so he holstered a gun, pulled out his riding crop, and swung behind him to smack the man sharply. The Reverend had pulled back and indicated to the group behind him one should run to the woods and fetch John.

“Be smart about it!” Sherlock shouted after him, “He’s harmed and my cannons will destroy this town like so much driftwood at sea.”

Sherlock signalled and a cannon fired into brine, splashing those on the shore while Sherlock laughed at the flying sand and water. The messenger was a young man who nearly fell in his haste to flee towards the woods. Sherlock meandered back and forth on the dock, ignoring attempts to engage him in conversation as he balanced on the very last board on the edge. Their arguments were pointless. John was his goal and endgame.

Finally the messenger arrived again and he had a shipman’s sack over his shoulders. Sherlock stilled and narrowed his eyes. _Watson_ was printed on the side. John’s shipsack containing all his worldly possessions before he’d left them.

_I should have gone with him. Shown him her faults. Taken the damn place myself. Instead my beloved managed it. He was so very brave. My beautiful doctor._

“Well?” Sherlock asked sharply, “I asked for him, not his-“

Sherlock paused as Sherlock came around the fisherman’s shop at a near run. He was winded but grinning from ear to ear, and three beautiful young women were following behind him. Sherlock holstered his second pistol and riding crop and put his arms out for the young man. Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He ran past the shocked, judgemental gaze, and flew into Sherlock’s arms.

“My Lord!” John choked out, his voice shaking with joy or sorrow, “I thought you were dead!”

Sherlock laughed as he held him tightly, “You call me your Lord again, then?”

John stepped back, pulling out of Sherlock’s wanting arms, and dropped to his knees. He folded his hands in supplication, love and longing in his eyes.

“Sherlock, my Lord. My love. I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really, very sorry. Please, My Lord. Welcome me aboard again and I’ll be your slave, your toy, your willing servant until death takes me.”

“And if it takes me first?”

“I’ll die avenging you.”

“Mm, I’m a pirate now, that may change your view of me.”

“I’m a pimp,” John gestured to the women behind him, “Does that change your view of me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, “Not in the slightest, but the _crew_ will be _very_ eager to welcome you back.”

“They’ve brought their possessions with them,” John told him with a broad grin, “What they have and what they own.”

“They’ll be respected and treated well,” Sherlock nodded, and then raised his voice to the people on the shore, “Ladies, gentlemen, and variations thereupon! We will be taking our leave of you this day and wish you well. Since you have so kindly given John over to us we will give you the gift of continued life and no thievery. What say you?!”

Silence. They all looked confused, disgusted, frightened, and offended. Sherlock shrugged and gestured for John to rise.

The young doctor stood and Sherlock took his hand in his own, tilting it so John saw the ring he’d gifted to Sherlock while still sickly. John pressed his lips to the ring and Sherlock led him onto the boat. Sherlock sat down on the bench and Sherlock dropped into his lap.

“Must make room,” Sherlock flirted.

Sherlock gestured to the three women who hurried forward with light laughter and a parcel apiece. They found laps to sit in as well. John’s bag was thrown onto the boat. The boat was shoved to and John buried his nose in Sherlock’s curls as the familiar sway of water beneath wood left him heady with joy. He hummed lightly as he nuzzled Sherlock’s ear and held his lover’s waist tightly. His feet one forward and one back, his lover in his arms again, the scent of the sea as the spray soaked him through, and he was soon singing lightly as the men hoisted them aboard. When he made it to the deck he broke out into full song, one arm raised to greet his compatriots.

_[“Now we are ready to head for the Horn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2jzDa3p-JE&index=6&list=PLf9bG4Az1OWHO4TDAL_yNVDGVMzoffrOM) _

_Weigh, hey, roll an' go!_

_Our boots an' our clothes boys are all in the pawn_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Oh, man the stout caps'n and heave with a will_

_Weigh, hey, roll an' go!_

_Soon we'll be drivin' her 'way up the hill_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave away, bullies, ye parish-rigged bums_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_Take yer hands from yer pockets and don't suck yer thumbs_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_We're outward bound for Vallipo Bay_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_Get crackin', me lads, it's a hell of a way!_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!_

_Heave a pawl, oh, heave away_

_Weigh, hey, roll and go!_

_The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored_

_To be rollickin' randy dandy O!”_


	21. Chapter 21

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Db7m1DiUItY>

 

The boat swayed and John shifted across the deck, finding his sea legs after months ashore. He lifted his head and breathed in the ocean, eyes shut to the bright sun that warmed his face. He spread his arms and let out a slow breath before shifting to strip off his shirt. His shoes were next. His britches last. He stood in a bit of undergarment wrap and waited a moment, watching as Sherlock studied him from where he’d been watching John sing and cavort across the deck with the crew. The sport was done. The song over. The men and women climbing the rigging as they readied the sales. John was ready to purge himself of his past life and his lover was headed towards him to burn the past from his body.

Sherlock crossed the deck to John, mouth capturing his and arms moving around his body. He had John against the mizzenmast as he had so long ago when John had lost control of his own mind. Now John was bringing Sherlock back to his. Frantic and hungry, they pressed against each other, Sherlock’s buttons and bangles chafing and scratching John’s skin. One caught in a nipple ring and John groaned as it tugged painfully. Sherlock detached it with a wiggle of an eyebrow before capturing his lips again. Around him crew moved without a care, the remainder loyal to a fault and willing to look away. Sherlock’s trousers were easily undone and their hungry bodies moved together. John’s mouth fell open, his head against the solid wood behind him as Sherlock’s own mast ground into the older man’s hip.

“I’ve been fantasizing about taking you for months,” Sherlock growled, “Having you back in my bed. In my arms. In my mouth.”

“Sherlock!” John cried out, “Please, may I come, My Lord?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock scolded, “We’ve barely touched.”

“I’ve barely touched _myself_!” John wailed, “For _months!”_

“Ah, well,” Sherlock leaned back, taking away his blessed friction, “That rather changes things.”

To John’s absolute devastation Sherlock knelt before him, slipped the fabric from around his waist, and swallowed him down. John’s head fell back and he choked on his breathe as the man’s tongue slid beneath his foreskin to tease the sensitive head. John was reduced to broken cries and pleas for permission. Sherlock continued to suck him, occasionally gripping his shaft as a mercy when he felt that John was too close. He worked him until John’s legs shook and he could focus on nothing but the feel of tongue, lips, and teeth. He’d lost control of his hands and was gripping Sherlock’s curls in both hands. The man allowed it, but only because he was as hungry for John as the doctor was for his captain.

Sherlock slid off completely with a pop and John keened in longing as his balls tightened once again.

“You have my permission,” Sherlock growled, then swallowed the man down as if starved for his cock.

John let out roar as he spilled down Sherlock’s throat, shaking in pleasure as his knees gave out. Sherlock let him sink to the deck and before the doctor was fully recovered from his own mind blowing orgasm the tip of his captain’s hard cock was sliding past his lax lips. John recalled himself and began to suck hungrily, savoring the taste of the precome on the tip and taking Sherlock all the way back into his throat. He choked on him and slid back off. Every ridge and vein was a joy to have caressing his lips and cheeks. He opened his eyes and stared up at Sherlock’s wrecked expression in adoration as to beg for the man’s seed.

“Oh, _John_ ,” Sherlock breathed.

His beautiful prism eyes fell shut and Sherlock’s cock pulsed in John’s mouth. He swallowed down his salty release as the man shuddered and moaned above him. John thrilled as his hair was pulled and his airways blocked. Sherlock pulled free and gripped his cock to jerk a few drops free. He smeared them across John’s lips as he posed with his mouth open in supplication.

“Oh, my dear doctor,” Sherlock breathed, “My beloved.”

“Always yours,” John breathed.

As he was often want, Sherlock changed gears so quickly that John was left bereft. The man pulled away, did up his flies, and turned to the matter of sorting possessions.

“Bring those here, no point wasting the fabric. We can alter them quite a bit to make them seaworthy. They could be your… nice clothes.”

John shrugged in disinterest and shook his head. None of his clothes would work for the rough seas. A crewman stepped forward with an offer for trade and John turned over two spare shirts that he’d assumed he wouldn’t be keeping. He accepted the rough sailcloth clothes and slid them over his restored undergarments with a heavy sigh of relief. Trousers and a vest, letting his rings show as a portion of pride to his master. Sherlock smiled heatedly and stood up to observe his beloved.

“Soon the sun will bleach your hair again, take out those sandy roots you’ve grown in. You’ll be mine again, dearest John.”

“I never stopped being yours,” John professed easily, stepping forward and holding up his arm for Sherlock to take so they could walk together, “You were right, of course. I couldn’t bring myself to touch Mary and she was not the woman I thought I knew.”

“Oh, I know. I’ve read all your cute journal entries,” Sherlock replied, “Mycroft delivered them to me, and he even managed to smuggle aboard a gift that I’m _quite_ taken with.”

“Which was that?” John asked, “Another piercing? A necklace? You have a fine neck, it should be adorned.”

“Mm, not a falsehood, but there are things I wish for that involve privacy. My dear Lestrade?”

“Aye, Cap’n?” Lestrade called back, leaning over the deck.

“You have the helm.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“If anyone needs me,” Sherlock stated as he led John back to the captain’s quarters, “Don’t.”

John entered the cabin he’d called home with a slow breath of relief. He was surprised not to find Lestrade and Donovan’s things in there as well. He gestured to the room and as usual Sherlock knew what he meant without him saying.

“Skeleton crew,” Sherlock stated, “It was easier to board off a section of the treasure hold and crews quarters to make two small captain’s quarters. We have our privacy, but I’ll ask for a bit more.”

Sherlock held out a ribbon for him and John eagerly knelt so it could be wrapped around his eyes and tied at the back. Once Sherlock was certain his vision was totally hidden he moved across the floor and John listened as he opened a chest. The rustle of fabric and clink of metal. John’s hopes were twisted up in his chest. He wanted Sherlock desperately. He was longing and aching for him. He was already hard and leaking in his loincloth. He wished he were tied up and helpless for Sherlock’s brutal punishment of his past behaviour, but it was entirely possible the man wasn’t planning on giving him what he wanted. Perhaps he could at least get what he needed. John didn’t expect to climax that night. Sherlock might not allow it. Not yet. That was when John recalled he hadn’t washed himself out. He opened his mouth to inform Sherlock of such, but a clearing of his throat had him coming to attention.

“Remove the blindfold, John.”

John didn’t hesitate. An order was an order. He lifted the blindfold and took in a shocked breath.

Sherlock wore a baby blue dress, layers of delicate silken fabric, with a white lace collar that travelled up the perfect column of his neck. Sherlock lifting one leg and planting it firmly on the chest full of his sex toys countered what would have looked prim and proper. His bare leg was shaved clean like a harlot and a white garter belt gripped his thigh. John could barely breathe.

Sherlock had a bit of rouge on his lips and cheeks, just enough to contrast his sun-kissed skin. He looked radiant and beautiful with his touseled curls.

“You’re beautiful,” John breathed.

“I made sure that dreadful scent of lemons was gone. Come and give us a whiff.”

John crawled forward on his hands and knees and lifted a corner of the soft garment to breathe in the scent of Sherlock’s herbal soaps and pipe smoke. He smiled lovingly up at him, adoration taking his words away. Sherlock stroked his cheek and then leaned forward to guide his chin upwards. Their lips met in a slow, steady kiss that left John breathless as well as speechless.

“Oh my sweet doctor,” Sherlock breathed, “You will prepare yourself for me, wash fully, strip off those clothes, and lay supine on our bed.”

“Our bed,” John breathed, “You are so good to me, my love.”

“And I will be. Forever, my pirate slave.”

“My pirate king,” John kissed his knuckle and rose quickly to got to the head.

His supplies were where he’d left them and he hurried to prepare himself both inside and out. Once he had his body ready he returned to Sherlock and lay across his bed on his stomach. His eyes followed as Sherlock paced the room. He was tall for the dress and it danced a foot above the floor.

“This is a momentous occasion,” Sherlock told him, “I am so grateful to have you back, my love.”

“I am so grateful to be with my Lord again,” John breathed, watching him as he rested his chin on his arms.

“We should mark the occasion.”

John’s lips twitched, “I do so love the emphasis on the word _mark_.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock smiled fondly and opened a small box that he drew from within his desk. From it he withdrew a small metal seal meant for dipping in wax to close envelopes, “My family crest.”

John shivered, “Will you brand me with it?”

“Goodness, no!” Sherlock laughed, “The healing time, and in the sun, no, no, no, no. Instead I must ask that we be joined by our dearest Cap’n Sal.”

Sherlock opened the door and welcomed xem in, clearly having prepared for the occasion in advance. Sal had a box with xem and was quick to pull up Sherlock’s desk chair beside the bed. The box had little legs that folded out and xe set them up to sit beside xem. Xe wasn’t looking at John’s face and John wasn’t sure if he should be engaging xyr. He glanced at Sherlock to find he looked bored and had slouched down in John’s sex swing. He was pushing himself back and forth like a little girl and John gave him a light laugh.

“So, Sal,” John drawled as xe prepared a large needle with a block of wood at the top, “Will you tell me how you came here yet?”

“Mm,” Sal smiled softly, “One moment.”

John waited. Xe was pouring dark Indian ink into the well of a wooden bowl. The needle was split on one side like a quill and made of a substance he couldn’t identify. Perhaps bone or a wood he had not yet come across. Xe dipped the tip in ink and held up a mallot and gave him a challenging glance. John turned to lay flat on his belly.

“Where does my Lordship want me marked?” John asked.

“The left shoulder blade, I think,” Sherlock decided.

Sal dipped the image in ink and stamped his back to create the perfect outline. Xe began to meticulously- and _painfully_ \- tap out the tattoo onto his back, tapping the device to thrust it through the first layer of his skin. It stabbed and then burnt after and John hissed at the first few strikes before calming and relaxing into the pain. He didn’t prompt Sal again and soon xe began to talk on xyrown.

“My people are from islands,” Xe told him, “We saw dem pulled from the sea by the gods. We know of the moving of fish and currents. One such god saw me trown into de sea by a white devil such as ye self. Dey decided I was worth more dan dat and gave me powers. I used dem to change my body to make me happy.”

“Are you?” John prompted, “Happy?”

Sal didn’t answer and soon John lay found himself simply waiting through the long process. He dozed and woke, studied Sherlock’s pretty visage or watched Sal chew on xyr lip. The tapping eventually ended and a bandage was placed over the tattoo.

“Keep dis covered,” Sal ordered, “And yes.”

“Yes?” John wondered.

“Yes, I’m happy like dis,” Xe smiled down at him as xe collected xyr kit, “I may not have de body I want, but I have de respect and de love of mine life. I have a future.”

John smiled up at xem, “You’re an amazing person, Sal. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Yer welcome… cattle prod.”

John laughed at the nickname and the room fell to silence as John lay waiting for Sherlock to approach.

“Hm, given my pretty dress perhaps I should allow you to violate me tonight?” Sherlock mused.

“Would you enjoy that?” John wondered.

“I’ve tried it,” Sherlock shrugged, “I don’t prefer it.”

“Well, I’ve spent months missing you inside of me,” John replied, “Perhaps if you wish to reward me some day, but… please, Sherlock. My Lord. All I want is your length inside of me.”

Sherlock smiled at him wickedly, which was undoubtedly John’s favorite expression.

“I can’t wait to see your tattoo fully healed. It will be at least a week before you can uncover it. I plan to coat you in ink, my dearest. Will you let me?”

“I will let you do anything to me.”

“Hush now,” Sherlock scolded with a haunted look to his face, “I’ve demonstrated more than once that I can go too far. You have a safety word and you will use it.”

“Yes, My Lord,” John replied softly.

“I was lost without you.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“I was mad.”

“I’ll keep you right.”

“I will have to make up for the evils I’ve done. The new king will move into place within a year. In that time we must survive. We may not earn leniency.”

“We will,” John promised him, “We will build new ships. Better. Recrew them. Bring the new king such an offering that he will bow to _you_.”

Sherlock scoffed, “You misread me. I have no wish for _that_ kind of power. I only wish for a challenge and you.”

“You have me. We will find you a challenge.”

“So we will,” Sherlock replied softly, “Mycroft is being a bore.”

“He’s here?”

“In the sick bay being _dull_.”

“We’ll make a sailor out of him yet,” John chuckled, “Perhaps we can find him something to study on an island somewhere. A fantastic discovery will make him stop whinging.”

“That,” Sherlock chortled, “May be the best thing you’ve suggested yet. You know… bringing the king scientific advances… John, as a conductor of light-“

“I know, I know,” John laughed, “But I’m still an idiot.”

“Oh, everyone is,” Sherlock sighed, pushing out of the sex swing and sauntering over to John.

The taller man ran his fingers down the centre of John’s back, watching his muscles flex. He moved them down to John’s ass crack and back up to grip his hair lightly. He pulled and John hissed as his head was extended back at an awkward angle.

“Have you touched yourself, John?” Sherlock asked.

“B-barely,” John admitted guiltily, “I did think you were dead.”

“Yes, but if I was gone to you, what did you think of? Picture? Whose voice called your name? What scent teased your nostrils?”

“Yours,” John admitted, “I wept after. Take me with you into Hades next time.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Sherlock grumbled, “You make me better, John. Don’t change that.”

“My Lord,” John whispered, “How can you _wait_?”

Sherlock chuckled lightly, “You are never sated, my depraved doctor.”

“My sexy scoundrel,” John purred, “Come and take me, my Lord.”

Sherlock studied him and considered a moment before stepping back into the center of their small room. John thought he was going to sit back in the swing again, but he ignored it. Instead he put his hands out on either side of his body.

“Come and strip me, husband.”

John scrambled eagerly from the be and fled to Sherlock, kneeling on the floor at his feet. He lifted the dress and dove for the garter first, but Sherlock scolded him.

“Slowly, slowly. It’s too good a job to rush.”

John smiled and slowly slid the garter down his leg, lifting his foot so he could suck on the big toe. It tasted of salt and wood from the deck. Sherlock laughed lightly and pulled his toe away, nudging John’s cheek with his foot as punishment for being tickled. John chuckled out an apology and pressed a kiss to the garter belt. He tossed it towards the bed and then walked around Sherlock to take a look at the clasps. He’d had the dress altered so that the tiny buttons down the back met. John let out a slow breath of wonder at how elegant his long torso looked and began to slowly slip each button down. He counted twenty by the time he reached Sherlock’s waist. Beneath that was a faded off-white corset. John eased the dress down and Sherlock stepped free with that unearthly grace of his.

The doctor moved around him, studying the dedication to detail that came with Captain Sherlock Holmes. He wore the full outfit sans the stockings on his feet. The corset went from just above his pecks down to his waist, pinching him only a bit at the waist. John started at the bottom laces and worked them up to the halfway point where the next knot lay. He let the ribbons flow through his fingers before starting on the next. Finally it was easy to slip it off of Sherlock’s body and lay it on his desk. Beneath the corset was a chemise and underskirt of soft cotton. John let out a slow breath at the thought of such soft fabrics touching his strong lover’s skin.

John lifted each arm one at a time with a gentle caress to the bottom, undid the knot at the front by wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s torso, and slid the chemise over his head. His curls bounced back into place, beautiful as always. Sherlock’s underskirt was knotted so tightly that he had to work it a few times before it finally came free, and then the soft fabric pooled at his feat. John let out a low groan as Sherlock’s pale bottom was shown to him at last. This part of him that never reached the burning sun was almost white and John couldn’t stop himself from dropping to his knees and pressing a kiss to each shapely cheek. When he stood again to move around he found his lover hard for him once more.

“Sherlock, you’re absolutely stunning no matter what you wear,” John promised him.

Sherlock smiled heatedly and wrapped his arms around John’s torso, pulling his naked body close to his own.

“You, my handsome doctor, are going to scream my name by the time I’m done with you.”

John smiled contentedly, “Yes, my Lord.”

AN: I really, really wanted to write a kinky sex scene here, but this felt right with the submission and Sherlock showing himself to John as beautiful like a cute lil peacock.

XXX

Lestrade checked the compass, the sun, and the men in the rigging. His hands never left the wheel when he was on the helm. He could leave it to others, but he preferred to be at the wheel. He had a good view here of the scuttle on most of the deck and half of the rigging. As such, he was aware that something odd was going on shortly before a man ran up the ladder to reach him.

“Sir, a bottle was found in the fishing nets.”

“And you’re coming to tell me it’s sealed and full of rum?” Lestrade hoped with a laugh.

“It’s got a piece of paper in it,” The man replied, looking anxious.

Lestrade locked the wheel and put his hand out, “What on earth? Why? You’re stranded somewhere than the bottle is more valuable than the letter that will probably never get anywhere. He could have put rainwater in here! Or better yet, fermented fruit!”

Lestrade studied the pink wax around the bottle’s cork that had kept it from drenching into the letter. He broke it open, pulled the cork with his hip knife, and spent a good ten minutes grumbling as he tried to get the letter out. Inside was a sketch of their former cook- Moriarty himself- but something had smeared one side of his face. Lestrade turned it over after swearing to himself and narrowed his eyes at the words on the back.

_Did you miss me?_

 

AN: I have NO idea if I'm going to write more of this. Maybe. Feel free to make suggestions? Valrae, my beloved muse, I am eager to hear from you as always. 

 

Here's a clip from my favorite pirate movie: 

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCgQ0L022e0>


End file.
